


Tethered Bones

by boringgreen



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Body Worship, Boot Worship, Child Abuse, Claude von Riegan is a Little Shit, Come Eating, Dedue is a genuinely nice guy, Domestic Fluff, Enthusiastic Consent, Foreplay, Glove Kink, Hand Kink, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, Lingerie, Linhardt needs more love, Lorenz really likes being noble okay?, Ludwig von Aegir is a terrible father, M/M, Minor Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring, Minor Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary, Minor Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth, Minor Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan, Mirror Sex, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Caspar von Bergliez, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Post-Time Skip, Praise Kink, Pre-Time Skip, Safeword Fail, Safeword Use, Safewords, Self-care is SEXY, Slight degradation kink but everything is consensual, Slow Burn, Soft!Ferdinand, Soft!Hubert, Spanking, Subdrop, Subspace, Sylvain is a bro, Tender Sex, but a lovable little shit, switch!Ferdinand, switch!Hubert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:00:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 51,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25142800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boringgreen/pseuds/boringgreen
Summary: CW: Depiction of a panic attack, discussions on mental health, discussions of homophobia and biphobia, allusion to various characters' personal traumas, explicit discussion of difficult familial relationships, discussions and depictions of child abuse, explicit sex scenes.After a long bout of sleepless nights, Hubert's condition deteriorates. Ferdinand takes it upon himself to care for him.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 71
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy everyone, this is my first ever fanfic that I've written. I hope it's suitable. I'm still trying to figure out how to work twitter, but I may include my handle in a future update. Thank you for taking the time to click on this! (edited to add: Please forgive any formatting errors, I apologize profusely!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy everyone, this is my first ever fanfic that I've written. I hope it's suitable. I'm still trying to figure out how to work twitter, but I may include my handle in a future update. Thank you for taking the time to click on this! (edited to add: Please forgive any formatting errors, I apologize profusely!)

Hubert hadn’t slept for six days. At least, he certainly didn’t remember sleeping, though he closed his eyes for approximately two minutes between days five and six, ruminating on something Edelgard had muttered into the shell of his ear. He didn’t remember her exact words anymore, just that the softness of her voice reminded him of a gentle winter breeze. 

On day six, Hubert thought that closing his eyes for a moment at dinner would be socially acceptable, only for his eyes to snap open as Caspar lunged across the dining hall table shouting some nonsense about how soft Dorte’s mane was. 

Dorte, as he had learned earlier that day, was Marianne’s horse. He would say “learned”, but it was more like Caspar’s annoying and boisterous voice boomed in their classroom and seemed to reverberate off the walls and directly into Hubert’s eardrums until all he could remember from the day’s lesson was that Dorte was the damned horse’s name, that he was soft, and that Caspar tried desperately to follow all of Ferdinand’s advice concerning animal husbandry and still managed to spook the damned thing.

Ferdinand giggled about Caspar’s outburst earlier in class—a terrifyingly cute, _no_ , saccharine noise that Hubert gagged at— as he reminded Caspar, “I hope you were not this loud by Dorte earlier. That could very well be why he spooked!”

“What? _Pshh!_ No way, I am super approachable and calm!” Caspar flailed his arms about. “See? Perfectly calm!”

“Pinnacle of serenity,” Linhardt rolled his eyes.

“Hey,” Caspar whined, “not everyone can be as subdued as you, Mr. I’m-the-perfect-human-specimen-of-composure.”

“And not everyone can be as loud as you, Cas,” Linhardt sighed.

Caspar leaned in and said, “But I can sure make you loud, sweetheart.” 

Hubert covered his face.

“I think his voice is softer in his brain,” Bernadetta whispered in Hubert’s ear, covering her face in turn as well.

“You think he has a brain in the space between his ears?” Hubert smirked as he muttered to her. The laugh he earned from her distracted him from all other conversations.

And yet, the unceasing volume that was Caspar’s voice prattled on. Hubert understood, logically, that Caspar was speaking words but his mind was having some difficulty processing the meaning of all the loud sounds strung together.

“Seriously, Hubes, you gotta pet himmmm! He’s so gigantic and soft!” Caspar boomed.

Hubert furrowed his brows and nodded. He hated when Caspar called him “Hubes”, but the hideous nickname hardly registered in his foggy brain by the time the conversation had shifted.

“Indeed, he is soft!” Petra smiled, her lips stretched wide and her eyes glinting with excitement. “And big, he is!”

“Very close, Petra,” Edelgard hummed, her chin cupped in her delicate hand. “The more correct version of your sentiment would be: 'and he is big’, or some derivative. You’re really excelling, I must commend you.”

“Ah, my mistake,” Petra’s mouth twitched upward momentarily before returning to its more natural shape. 

Hubert was inwardly thankful she had such obvious tells; were Petra to grow closer to his Lady in the future, Hubert would discern her innermost thoughts from the way her mouth tugged, or observe the slight tick where she rubbed her earlobe when she was embarrassed, or notice her faint flush when she lied. She perceived her mistake as a personal matter, a shortcoming of some moral proportion, Hubert discerned.

“Truly, you have made great progress!” Ferdinand leaned slightly closer to Petra, something Hubert noticed he did when he actually felt comfortable enough to be vulnerable. It was something he was doing a lot lately. It made Hubert slightly sick for a reason he wasn’t ready to address. “If you would like, perhaps we could ruminate over linguistics over tea! When you are free, that is; I would not be so rude as to ask you to join me if you had other plans this week!” His laugh was one borne out of nervousness; Hubert could tell from the slight lilt near the end.

“Von Aegier, I would ask that you not accost the princess of Brigid with such obviously flirtatious intentions,” Hubert rubbed his eyelids. “It’s dinner, and some of us wish to eat in peace."

“W-What?” Ferdinand puffed out his chest, instinctively moving away from Petra and nearly launching himself into Linhardt instead, who was barely awake and poking at his rather jiggly pudding with his spoon. “I would never be so improper as to, in your words, “accost” Petra were I interested in courting her; if I was interested, I would send her the most magnificent and overflowing bouquet of flowers and write her a poem about how her eyes remind me of the faintest glow of twilight bleeding into the sunset—or rather, I would confess in private how she made my heart flutter in my chest, how I longed to spend the rest of my days making her laugh in earnest, how I—“

“Ferdie, even you have to admit that’s pretty sappy,” Dorothea chuckled. Hubert was just thankful someone stopped his yapping. “It’s heavy-handed, even coming from you. Look, all you’ve got to do to get a lady to like you is be honest with her. Forget all this “your eyes remind me of the twilight-ridden sky” crap, I can’t even believe you would pull something like that!” 

She scoffed at him in a playful manner before quietly adding, "You have beautiful eyes, though, Petra, and I mean that. Don’t listen to that stuffy boy.”

Petra’s eyes widened at the complement and she grinned at Dorothea.

Ferdinand’s face flushed with embarrassment, and Hubert lost his appetite upon the sinking realization that he enjoyed the hue playing upon the redhead’s cheeks, but not in the same sense he had even a few weeks prior; no, making the boisterous Ferdinand von Aegier flush wasn’t a matter of a cat and mouse game for Hubert any longer. He was even starting to lose his bite, it seemed.

Indeed, if he ever dreamt of talking down to Ferdinand as of late, it was accompanied by a fervent longing to push him roughly against a wall, to feel the heat of his body underneath his white cotton gloves, to see those ever-flapping lips part in a quiet huff, an invitation for Hubert to seize them. 

Lately, he’d taken the fantasies further; sometimes the Ferdinand occupying his lust-filled mind would breathe _“fuck me!”_ against his ear or scream his name loudly enough for anyone in the monastery to hear under the ministrations of Hubert’s ever-eager mouth on an erect nipple. 

Admittedly, the thought of Ferdinand ever being so obscene was both exhilarating and hilarious to Hubert’s sleep-deprived mind, and he covered his mouth with the back of his hand, shaking in near-silent laughter.

 _“Someone’s got the giggles,”_ Bernadetta stated very matter-of-factly, and, for whatever reason, that tipped him over the edge; Hubert clutched his stomach and lurched his head back to let out an uncharacteristically loud, staccato laugh before exhaling and rejoining the rest of the table. 

“Hubert, you’re crying!” Caspar pointed at him before he realized that he did, in fact, have a tear streaming down his cheek. His shoulders seemed to vibrate with an energy all their own, and Hubert wiped his stray tear with his shaky finger. Soon, the table erupted in laughter at the observation of Hubert’s slight crack in his demeanor. Even Edelgard nudged Hubert in jest. It was a tender gesture that reminded him of when she was even smaller than she was at present. 

But when Hubert’s gaze drifted to Ferdinand, he noticed the furrow of his manicured brows. It wasn’t his usual pout. Perhaps Ferdinand noticed Hubert’s inability to control himself. Or, more likely, Hubert’s heavy eyes were playing tricks on him.

As the bells chimed, everyone scrambled from their seats and resumed their boisterous conversations. Hubert lagged behind and tripped over the bench Caspar had accidently scooted several inches in his fervor. A quick, strong grip on Hubert’s thin wrist hoisted him up and Hubert swayed back before slamming flush into Ferdinand’s chest.

“That was uncalled for,” Hubert muttered, weakly attempting to yank his wrist away from Ferdinand. He still wore that same uneasy look of concern.

“Hubert,” Ferdinand hesitated, keeping his voice uncharacteristically low. “I noticed you rubbing your temples in class today.”

“I merely had a headache from your endless chatter with Caspar about Marianne’s damned horse.”

“That may be so, but you also drooled a little during the professor’s lecture.”

Hubert felt what little color he had utterly drain from his cheeks in a cold sweat.

“I most certainly did not,” he scowled. “Unlike you, I’m not an animal,” he quickly added in a desperate attempt to sway Ferdinand into distraction.

It didn’t work. “You most certainly did. Hubert, when was the last time you slept? Your tear troughs are grayer than usual, and your skin is more taught in your sinus area.” 

Damn him. Damn Ferdinand von Aegir for actually taking notice to his appearance, for observing even the most minute details in his face; how could a fool like him notice even the slightest shift in pressure under Hubert’s own skin? The very thought caused his arms to shake in tandem with his shoulders now.

“I would suggest you use your apparent skills in observation to serve Edelgard in the future. I am in perfect health, and my condition should be least of your concern when you spend each and every passing day fixating on the most innocuous details of nobility.”

“Hubert,” Ferdinand’s voice was merely a whisper. “Please, tell me when the last time you slept was.”

“… Six days ago.”

“Oh Hubert,” Ferdinand traced a steady thumb along his wrist—Hubert shuddered when he realized he still hadn’t let go—and stared up at him with those soft amber eyes. Hubert narrowed his own eyes in an attempt to thwart any attempt at an intervention that Ferdinand had planned for him. 

“Please take some chamomile tea with me. I know tea is not, well, your cup of tea,” Hubert rolled his eyes at the terrible pun, “but it may help you relax.”

“I don’t need help relaxing. I have work to get done.”

“And I’m sure whatever you are doing is important. But, please, Hubert, you have to rest—“

An uninhibited uneasiness festered inside Hubert. “Leave me be, Ferdinand,” he warned.

Ferdinand exhaled through his nose. “No. I’m not letting you go so easily.”

The tension boiling inside Hubert for the past several days seemed to ooze out of his mouth. Even the words felt cruel and acidic as they coated his tongue. “Even if I did need assistance, I would never turn to you for help in this regard; hell, I wouldn’t seek out your assistance in _any_ regard. You’re merely a blithering idiot, full of sound and hot air. You dote on animals more than your own comrades, you’re completely occupied with your own appearance, and you’re totally absorbed in an obsolete and antiquated ideology all for the sake of giving your meaningless existence some sort of purpose. You’re useless to me.”

Ferdinand’s mouth fell open. If Hubert didn’t know any better, he would say that Ferdinand had been physically struck by the awful sound that escaped his throat. Hubert didn’t strike him, did he?

Finally, he granted Hubert the release he so desperately desired, and withdrew his hand. 

Hubert’s empty hand now tremored, and his ears seemed to close off to almost all noise. His lungs swelled tightly under his ribs. He felt the revolting sensation of bile crawling up his throat. 

Why was he shaking like a wet cat? 

He slammed his eyes shut and turned away from Ferdinand before rushing out the doors leading from the dining hall.

“Hubert!” he vaguely recognized Ferdinand crying out for him, but everything sounded underwater. 

He sprinted past gaggles of students gathered in the courtyards and past buildings that, to his frenzied mind, looked nearly identical. He needed to get away. His heart palpitated, and he clutched his chest before slamming into a dormitory door. He tumbled into the room, crawling along the floor before clinging to the bedpost.

“It’s me, I am locking the door right now,” a muffled voice behind him panted, and the sounds of the outside world closed off. 

Hubert dug his gloved nails along his scalp. He wondered if he was on the floor still, as everything seemed to swirl and lurch around him. His surroundings became utterly unrecognizable. 

He muffled a cry by biting into his lip. Hubert’s mouth moved all on its own after he tasted the familiar tang of copper now pooling in it. He hadn’t even heard anything crawl out of his open mouth.

“Close your eyes,” the voice seemed closer now, but Hubert couldn’t discern where it stemmed from. “May I hold you?”

Hubert choked out a guttural “yes” before releasing a scream into what felt like warm fabric. 

“I have you,” a whisper tickled the edge of Hubert’s ear, a scalding puff of quiet noise. “I have you,” the voice reiterated. Warm skin grazed along his temples, rubbing softly but strategically along the throbbing skin there. Hubert felt the warmth underneath him growing wet from the drool of his mouth and the tears—he was crying?—tickling his heavy lashes.

“You are so strong, Hubert,” the voice encouraged him, with what little he could understand right now. “Just let everything out. That’s it. I am going to take care of you right now, alright? You have nothing to worry about. I promise that you will be safe, I would never let anything happen to you.”

Hubert was completely enveloped in warmth and weight. He remembered feeling this same weight before, but only distinctly once. He must have been about three or four, still dragging around his beloved stuffed wyvern doll, running a small finger along the dark green button scales of the toy, when his father approached him in the hallway and scooped him up in a hug. Perhaps it was the only time his father hugged him that he could remember, but even calling this snippet of sensation a memory was an insult to the vividness Hubert could recall anything of importance in most other situations. 

And it wasn’t as if Edelgard hadn’t hugged him before; she was just much lighter than whatever this was snaking around him right now. He sobbed into the sensation.

“Don’t leave me,” Hubert’s voice sounded absolutely wrecked. In a normal circumstance, he would have been embarrassed.

“I would never dream of it, my little raven,” a tender hand tended to his tears, wiping them away as cleanly as possible. 

Hubert wasn’t sure where he was. He was completely lost, clinging to whoever was kind enough to have pitied him. He pressed his nose into the crook of their neck, only to discover troublesome fabric. He whimpered in frustration, only to be rewarded by having a hand card through his greasy hair. Shit, he forgot to bathe this morning. 

He supposed it didn’t matter to them, however, as he was met with a quiet reassurance from his caretaker. “You are doing so well. Are you with me right now?”

“No,” Hubert groaned, still trying to burrow his face further. He was vaguely aware of the fabric being tugged out of the way and falling into his lap, allowing him to press fully into the naked skin there. He immediately recognized the scent: warm, a hint of cinnamon and bergamot, perhaps some lingering amber musk from the morning’s spritz of cologne, and an earthy undertone of hay.

“F-Ferdinand?” Hubert squeezed around the figure, daring not open his eyes yet.

“I am right here, Hubert. I have you,” he answered. It was distinctly Ferdinand’s voice; Hubert didn’t know how he didn’t recognize it before. “Thankfully, you chose to run to my room. Please, forgive my hamper, I had not yet had the chance to fold my clothes this morning before class.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Hubert said, still actively nuzzling Ferdinand’s neck and relishing in the reverberation of his laughter in his throat. It was warm, much like Ferdinand’s own scent, and desperately cut through the tension.

“Well I am certainly thankful for that. Normally, I would be mortified. Right now, I think your comfortability takes precedence over my wounded pride.”

“I’m sorry,” Hubert whispered. “For what I said.”

“It is quite alright,” Ferdinand whispered in return. “Let us discuss this later, hm? Would you like to be somewhere more comfortable than the floor right now, or would moving be too much?”

“Bed,” Hubert sniffed. He was still producing mucus. How lovely.

“Can you move?”

Hubert shook his head.

Ferdinand hummed. “Hold onto me,” he said.

Hubert wasn’t sure he understood, but his body seemed to; he clung onto Ferdinand’s neck as he realized his feet were no longer on the ground. He whimpered again, as his heart seized from being so high off the ground.

“Heights, I forgot! I am so sorry!” Ferdinand’s voice was so loud in Hubert’s ear. Before he could reprimand him, Hubert was laid out so gently on a set of fresh sheets he hadn’t even realized he had been set down quite yet until Ferdinand’s hands abandoned him completely.

He was suddenly very cold. His body shivered and tears pricked the corners of his eyes.

“Come back,” he pleaded, only to be met once more by the warm hands he became so accustomed to.

“Anything you need, I will provide,” Ferdinand assured him.

“Then hold me, please,” Hubert begged. “And talk to me about something—anything—just… I don’t want to think."

Ferdinand stroked Hubert’s cheek very briefly before shimmying Hubert’s feet out of his boots and kicking off his own. Ferdinand gently scooted Hubert so as to lay beside him, but soon whispered, “I promise I will be here soon. Can you breathe for me?”

Hubert simply nodded, breathing out in a long, overdrawn puff. He inhaled through his nose as steadily as he could manage, which was not very steady at all. Hubert wasn’t even sure how long Ferdinand was gone for, only that he was trembling from the lack of touch.

“Ferdinand,” Hubert choked out, gasping for air again.

“I am right here,” Ferdinand held his hand. “I brought you something,” he said.

Hubert opened one of his eyes. Ferdinand showed Hubert a rather tattered book from his bookshelf. The navy spine was completely grayed with age, the rich dye abused from years of being torn open and slammed shut, perhaps abused by more readers than just Ferdinand himself. Hubert slammed his eye shut again.

“This book is the only possession of my mother’s I was allowed to keep when she passed,” Ferdinand remarked, shifting underneath Hubert so his chest became Hubert’s pillow. Hubert sighed against the slight rising and falling of Ferdinand’s chest beneath him. “I think she would be happy to see me read from it to bring you comfort. All the stories in this are rather short, I must say. What would you like for me to read, Hubert?”

Hubert hadn’t been read to since…. Well, since he could form a coherent memory, he supposed. A von Vestra taught himself to read, as was customary, and Hubert was no different in that regard.

“Anything with a dragon,” he said.

“Alright,” Hubert could feel Ferdinand smile against his temple. 

His voice was perfectly measured and the perfect volume for Hubert’s overly-sensitive ears as he read: “'The Princess and her Wyvern’, a tale transcribed by Sir Quell. Once upon a time, in a kingdom by the sea, there lived a lonely princess. Her eyes were the color of sea glass, her hair the texture of seafoam. She was beloved by her people because of her beauty, though she longed to be loved because of her character instead. By day, the princess performed her duties as prescribed to her; each morning consisted of endless hours of etiquette lessons, each afternoon of tea with another important official from a neighboring kingdom. But each night, the princess cried and cried. “I wish I had a friend,” she would cry. “I wish I was loved.” 

"One night, a traveler heard her cries from her bedroom tower below. “I have a great many friends,” the young man said. “If I give you a friend, one whose love is unconditional, would you do something in return for me?” he asked.”

Hubert smiled against Ferdinand’s chest. “I am not a child, Ferdinand. You don’t need to give the characters voices.”

“Hush,” Ferdinand whispered, his unoccupied hand brushing Hubert’s hair once again. “You said you wished to not think, so I figured by giving each character a voice, your mind would be less occupied trying to imagine all of them for you. Is… is this alright? Touching your hair,” Ferdinand asked. “If it is uncomfortable, I can stop.”

“If anything you do so much as slightly displeases me,” Hubert grumbled, “I will let you know. Please, Sir Narrator, continue.”

Ferdinand chuckled. Unlike his laugh with Petra earlier, this one was sincere, sweet, real. This was the Ferdinand that had so captured him as of late, the one that snagged on the spindle of his mind like a delicate thread.

“Where was I…? Oh, yes,” he hummed, gently stroking Hubert’s messy locks. 

““If I give you a friend, one whose love is unconditional, would you do something in return for me?” he asked. “Anything,” she called down to the man. “If I give you a friend, you will have to prove yourself worthy of more friends than just her,” he answered. The princess was unsure of what that meant, but she was ready to accept any challenge. “Anything,” she repeated.”

Hubert had somewhat lost track, floating in and out of the story—the man had given the princess a wyvern’s egg that soon hatched. She tended to the dragon, feeding her, playing with her, watching over her as she grew. One day, the dragon became sick, and the princess worried that the wyvern would die. The man returned each night to give the princess gifts to comfort the dragon and in return, the princess gave gifts to the man. Soon, of course (and predictably so, Hubert grumbled), the two fell in love and the dragon made a miraculously recovery. 

Hubert hadn’t been paying much attention when that happened; he was far too preoccupied on the sudden realization that Ferdinand’s chest was muscular, wider, even, than when they had arrived at the academy. 

If he was a bolder man, he would have ran his hands along the clothed muscles beneath him, would have thanked Ferdinand properly for his patience with him earlier by laving each inch of him with his tongue. Perhaps, if his ministrations were enough, Ferdinand would have taken him into his mouth, moaning as Hubert groaned, _“You were meant to suck my cock”_ and he spilled down Ferdinand’s wanton throat.

But, Hubert von Vestra was not a bold man. His arm remained lazily draped across Ferdinand’s stomach, which, _flames_ , also seemed muscular under even his limp arm. He had almost forgotten Ferdinand was still reading until his voice tickled his ears.

““I confess, I must not be a very good friend,” said the princess, “for I think I have fallen in love with you.” The traveler laughed and said, “But my dear, that is how the best love is formed—between friends.” The two lived along the sea until the rest of their days, the princess having forsaken her title and the traveler having forsaken his days of aimless travel. The end.”

Ferdinand carefully closed the book, taking extra precautions to not do so by Hubert’s face, and set it on his bedside table as if it were made from the finest porcelain. Hubert inwardly appreciated the gesture.

“You may sleep here, if you wish,” Ferdinand’s voice fell even below a whisper, if it was possible. “I will sleep on the floor so as to give you more space.”

Hubert shook his head.

“Has the great and terrible Hubert von Vestra decided to keep me captive?”

“Please, you’re not even worth keeping captive; you would waste the guards’ precious tea leaves and pastries.”

Ferdinand scoffed in a gesture of mock-offense. Hubert loved when he played with him like this. 

He moved his hand from Hubert’s hair to his upper back. “You seem to be more yourself,” he mused.

“I've never had an outburst such as that before. I apologize. It was… unbecoming.”

“You need not apologize, Hubert. Please, sleep. If not for yourself, for Edelgard. I know she would worry for you if she knew of the extent of your insomnia as of late. Sometimes, panic attacks can be caused by undue stress to both the mind and body. Sometimes, they seem to happen for no particular reason at all.”

“It was _not_ a panic attack,” Hubert griped. He feared Ferdinand was right. "If you tell her _anything_ , I swear to you, von Aegir, that being my captive will very much become a reality for you.”

“Hubert, that would be very rude of me to confront her Majesty about the health of her retainer. It would be equally rude of you to maim me for voicing my worries. But, you are my friend, and I do not wish to betray your trust. However, you have to promise me something in order for me to not report my concerns to Edelgard.”

Damn that Ferdinand von Aegir.

“Wait,” Hubert furrowed his brows, finally allowing his eyes to open fully. His vision was beyond blurry. He blinked a few times before seeing Ferdinand’s face illuminated by the weak flame of a candle at his bedside table. 

Hubert’s stomach positively lurched at the sight. Ferdinand was beyond beautiful.

“I’m your friend?”

Ferdinand laughed heartily, bumping Hubert’s head as his chest quivered.

“Of course, Hubert! I know that I may not be your favorite person, but I do admire a great many things about you. But you are slithering around my proposal: in order for me to not tell Edelgard to dote on you every second of every day from here on out, you must promise me something.”

Hubert groaned. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

“Not necessarily,” Ferdinand hummed.

“Fine. Out with it.”

“You will allow me to take care of you until I feel you have recovered from your sleep deficit. I will still turn in any assignments for you. I will do anything you ask. But you have to sleep. You have to truly relax. We can make up some elaborate lie; not too elaborate, mind you. Perhaps you will come down with an inconvenient illness. You know, I hear that pegasus pox is _highly_ contagious,” Ferdinand smirked.

“Ferdinand von Aegier, noblest of nobles, lying to his lord?” Hubert jested. “What a disgusting proposal.”

Ferdinand’s playful smirk faltered. “I know how you work, Hubert. If I don’t threaten this, you will continue to spiral. I can’t—Lady Edelgard can’t allow that to happen. You would become a prime target for an opponent, be it political or otherwise. A brilliant mind needs rest on occasion; the body is no different.”

Hubert lapped at his split lip, wincing as his tongue irritated the mark he made during his outburst. “Fine,” he scowled. “I will allow you this. But once I am sufficiently well-rested, you will trust me to care for myself.”

“I, Ferdinand von Aegir, give you, Hubert von Vestra, my word, upon my very honor.” He beamed down at Hubert before rummaging around in his bedside drawer and further jostling Hubert. Hubert rolled his eyes and kicked his shin.

“Ouch! Hold still, I noticed your lip was bleeding earlier,” Ferdinand huffed, retrieving a small container before using a glass instrument to dab some ointment-like product on his fingertip.

Hubert grimaced. It smelled like berries, though, thankfully, only faintly so.

“What the hell is that?” Hubert asked before being silenced by Ferdinand’s very warm and slightly calloused finger tracing along his bottom lip. Ferdinand looked at his lips intently as he gently wiped the balm along them, tracing up along Hubert’s cupid’s bow and top lip before wiping the leftover product on the back of his own hand and closing the jar of ointment. 

It was a wholly obscene gesture.

Hubert blushed furiously, the painful prickling of blood rushing to his normally pallid cheeks and ears reminding him that this situation could hardly be more scandalous.

“Do not glare at me like that,” Ferdinand pouted. “You promised.”

_Damn him!_

Ferdinand blew out the candle.

“Are you comfortable?” He patted Hubert’s head softly, before returning to rub his back. “Remember: whatever you need, simply ask.”

“I’m asking you to not move. If you so much as move a centimeter tonight, you’ll find a conveniently sharp straight razor digging into the fleshy side of your neck.”

“Is that a threat, Hubert?”

“It’s a promise, Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand sighed.

“Please do not even think about attending class tomorrow. I have a rather relaxing day planned out for you.”

Hubert groaned. “The things I do for Lady Edelgard.”

“Things you should be doing for yourself.”

Hubert whacked Ferdinand’s stomach, earning him a small grunt.

“A rather unceremonious sound from a von Aegir hound.”

“A rather dirty trick from a von Vetsra lapdog,” Hubert felt Ferdinand's stomach rumble in silent laughter. 

Hubert couldn’t help but laugh too.

“Now, no more games, Hubert,” Ferdinand scolded. 

Hubert was tempted to reach out and touch Ferdinand’s cheek, but decided against it after raising his hand. Instead, he reached for Ferdinand’s hand to bring it to his hair once more. 

“Had I known this was your weakness, I would have won every argument against you this way,” Ferdinand observed, massaging his scalp more deeply now.

“Mmm,” Hubert agreed. “You assume I would have let you win."

“Even the great and terrible Hubert von Vestra has his weaknesses, I suppose. Good night, Hubert. And sweet dreams."

The last thing he remembered was the steady rhythm of Ferdinand’s chest rising and falling, of his warm breath against his unwashed hair, and of his gentle voice earlier calling him “my little raven”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to add: come find me on twitter! I’d love to talk to you sometime! https://twitter.com/boringgreen1


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, I'm unsure of how soon the next chapter will be out, but I would give it maybe a week. I really appreciate you taking time out of your busy life to even read this. I hope you're having a great day, wherever you may be.

Hubert von Vestra was in his bed. _The_ Hubert. The same blasted man who kept him awake at night, the same Hubert he dreamed of holding tight against him, the same whose laugh made his heart swell and flutter like a newly emerging butterfly out of its chrysalis stage.

And not only was the one and only Hubert von Vestra in his bed, but Ferdinand’s face was on fire. He remembered Hubert threatening him if he moved, but, precariously, they both must have shifted in the night; Ferdinand woke up with Hubert clutching him for dear life, his back completely flush with Hubert’s sinewy chest.

And… there was another matter.

Ferdinand was positively aching, and if he thought what was pressed to his backside was any indication, he wasn’t the only one. It was rather dishonorable of him to ruminate on his most depraved fantasies, especially when the subject of nearly every said fantasy was _in his bed right now_. Even worse, his mind was completely wrapped around the idea of relief.

Nearly every morning, he throbbed uncomfortably, opting to sleep nude most nights for the simple convenience of taking care of his mostly inconvenient desires. But it was different to fantasize about your schoolboy crush and another thing to have him in such a compromised position beside you.

Ferdinand was ashamed to admit it, but his imagination ran wild nearly every day; his mind managed to fixate on the most seemingly mundane features—Hubert’s inky black waves, his thin waist, his eyes ( _Goddess_ , _his eyes!_ ).

It didn’t matter if it was during a lecture, or in the quiet upper level of the library, or even the training yard, Ferdinand’s mind dared ask the question, “ _what if?”_ constantly.

What if Hubert were to touch him with those long fingers, ungloved, flesh mingling with Ferdinand’s own? Hubert was so porcelain-skinned; would his face flush from the exertion of Ferdinand thrusting into him? Would he admire the deep, aching bruises Ferdinand would surely leave along his hips, blush in remembrance of their fervent and passionate lovemaking? Or, possibly more shamefully, would he flush from Ferdinand riding _him_ , feeling his cock brushing against that forbidden spot within Ferdinand? Would he whimper, no, _beg_ Ferdinand to let him finish inside him? Or would he command Ferdinand’s every maneuver (as was his mind’s fancy as of late), dictate when or even _if_ Ferdinand could release at all, all the while smacking his bare thighs and ass with a leather-gloved hand, forcing Ferdinand to count the amount of successful thuds and mewl “ _thank you, Sir_ ” with each hit?

But in each of his fantasies, it would end with Hubert praising him, telling him he was _good_ , _special_ , _worthy_ , _loved, his_.

There was a secret, subtle gentleness to Hubert. It was what he truly craved from the man. Ferdinand had seen it plenty times before. He had seen it in the way he gazed at Edelgard, in his tender smiles towards Bernadetta, in the way he _hmm_ ed at Linhardt’s latest findings.

But there had been one instance where Hubert had displayed that tenderness towards him, outwardly—about a month ago, when he was in the infirmary after a terrible blow from a bandit’s lance.

_Hubert was arguing with Linhardt about Ferdinand’s pain level, for which Ferdinand was eternally grateful for. It was one of the few times he was in so much pain he couldn’t speak. He opened his mouth, though no one’s eyes were on him. It was futile to waste what little energy he had. He felt the deep throb from the open gash below his ribs._

_“You’re only angry because he took that blow for you,” Linhardt observed, though his tone was somewhat accusatory._

_“I was careless,” Hubert muttered with the same fervor a common man would use if he had sworn at the Goddess herself. “My negligence could have meant the end for one of the Empire’s budding cavalrymen. Lady Edelgard would have never forgiven me.”_

_“But it’s more than that,” Lin commented. “It’s so much more.”_

_Hubert grimaced. “What are you insinuating?”_

_“You know, Hubert, for such a smart man, you really are fucking stupid sometimes,” Linhardt sighed._

_Ferdinand would have laughed at the rude comment, but his body and his mind began disconnecting. Were Hubert and Linhardt inching away from him, or was the scope from which he was observing the world narrowing, slowly but surely?_

_“If you so much as say anything—!” Hubert hissed, like a snake startled in the brush by something so much bigger than itself. Hubert never even finished his threat, instead furrowing his thin, elegant brows and frowning in Ferdinand’s direction after Ferdinand couldn’t choke back a gasp of pain._

_“Oh, I don’t have to tell him you love him. He’ll figure it out all on his own. Even little old Ferdinand could manage that, I promise,” Lin shrugged._

_Ferdinand was aware of Hubert’s strained shouts, though they become hard to distinguish as anything other than raw, indigestible noise._

But he had one clear thought in his head before losing consciousness: Hubert never denied that he felt _something_ to Linhardt when he thought Ferdinand’s mind could no longer process the conversation.

Perhaps Hubert loved him the same. Perhaps he didn’t. Ferdinand would take that lance ten times over if it meant he could place little butterfly kisses upon Hubert’s gaunt cheeks and tell him he was the most beautiful man in the world.

“You really are the most beautiful man in the world, frustratingly so,” Ferdinand sighed. He realized all too late that his mouth decided to vocalize the thought that plagued him most often.

The Goddess was good that day, because Hubert was too deep in sleep to have heard him. The healthy tinge to his high cheeks and deep breathing made Hubert seem more alive than he had looked in well over a week by this point.

A sudden, rumbling knock on Ferdinand’s door shook the walls of his room. Hubert’s eyes snapped open; he certainly wasn’t joking about that razor he mentioned the night before, as he grabbed it from the inside of his sleeve the very second his eyes decided to open.

Ferdinand made a _shh_ ing motion, before muttering a weak, “… Who is it?”

“It’s Caspar, silly! Come on, we’re late for class!”

Hubert glanced at Ferdinand with pure frustration. Ferdinand once again lifted his hand in silent protest, dipping his index finger in the candlewax of last night’s candle and rubbing the gray concoction of dark wax and the burnt wick under his eyes to mimic Hubert’s own naturally dark circles.

Ferdinand stumbled to the door—he had to get in character, after all—and barely cracked open the door for Caspar.

“Holy shit, Ferdie, are you sick too?” he sulked. It was awfully dark outside, rainclouds threatening to douse the monastery with rain once again. It’d be the third time this week, Ferdinand sighed.

“I am. Hubert is too; we both got sick last night,” he rubbed his eyelid to signal his fake-tiredness. He took extra precautions to not rub away the soot. “Wait, Caspar, what do you mean, “too”?”

Caspar scratched his somewhat unkempt hair. Ferdinand could tell he slept on his left side from how flat the cowlicks lay on his head. “Well, Lin, Dorothea, _and_ Bernie all got sick too. I was late from helping tie Lin’s hair back so it wouldn’t get all ruined. Did you eat that pudding, too? I swear that’s what did it. Lin ate, like, 3 of those. I even gave him mine. Oh, I feel so bad, Ferdie! What kind of a man am I if my own poor diet choices affect the man I love?”

Ferdinand laughed weakly. “I am not sure how to help you there, Caspar. I know nothing of love, nor how pudding could ever negatively affect a love as strong and pure as yours. Please, tell Professor Byleth I profusely apologize, for I—”

Dorothea, or, perhaps, it _could_ have been Dorothea (though it appeared to be more of an apparition than a fully-fledged flesh-and-blood human) walked by Caspar in the hall. Ferdinand had never seen the young woman so… _sickly_ before. Her dark circles mimicked Ferdinand’s completely fabricated ones; her normally healthy glow was replaced with an ashy dullness.

“Classiscancelled,” she slurred. “I wennago to turn in homework, iscancelled. Proffesorsick, too. You look like _shit_ , Ferdie, godabed.” She covered her mouth before dramatically throwing her head back and gulping nauseatingly loud. She scuffled down the hallways as fast as her wobbly legs could carry her.

“I am sorry, Caspar. I hope to feel better tomorrow,” Ferdinand frowned—convincingly, he may add—before pleading with his saddest puppy dog eyes. “Caspar, I know it may not be much, but I promise to spar with you at 5AM every morning next week if you would bring me some breakfast. Porridge or oatmeal for my stomach, ideally. Hubert will need some too.”

“You’re on!” Caspar pumped his fists. “Wait, he’s bunking with you right now?” Caspar tilted his head in curiosity.

Oh no. Ferdinand didn’t think _that_ far ahead.

“He came by for some ginger tea, if you can believe it. He said it would help calm his stomach. He drank it all and fell asleep.”

Caspar’s eyes widened. “Holy shit, this is bad if he’s _drinking tea_. And _sleeping._ Shit, yeah, I’ll get you guys some good stuff, but I gotta go take care of Lin the rest of the day. This is serious.”

Ferdinand exhaled and nodded his head. “Thank you for understanding, Caspar. You are truly a great friend.”

Caspar smiled so wide, it reminded Ferdinand briefly of how he used to smile at his own mother when he was a child. His heart felt a small pang at that realization.

“I’ll knock after I deliver the food. Gotta go!”

Ferdinand waved meekly after him, then carefully shut the door. He didn’t want to seem too excited.

He mentally braced himself for Hubert’s onslaught of judgmental comments, but was met with a quiet, but pleasant: “A bit theatrical, but convincingly so. No more theatrical than your usual antics. I can’t believe you’d sully my reputation by claiming I would ever stoop so low as to drink that hot leaf juice, though. A new low, even for you, von Aegir.”

“Well,” Ferdinand smiled down at Hubert, who was sheathing his razor once again, “I had to convince him of the severity of your condition.” Ferdinand stood by his bed, not daring to get in it again. He didn’t want to make Hubert uncomfortable, after all.

“By the way, you moved in your sleep.”

“Is that so?” Hubert cocked a brow. “How do you know it wasn’t _you_ who wanted to lie on your side?”

“Well, only the Goddess knows, I suppose,” Ferdinand laughed. “I am not a betting man, but I still believe you initiated it. Therefore, your threats to maim me are moot.”

Hubert let out a breathy _pfft_ and shook his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Just don’t get too comfortable,” he warned in jest. “It would be terribly inconvenient to wake up with something so sharp against your flesh, have it slip at the most inopportune time, and dirty your cravat.”

If he were Dorothea, he surely would have snickered and said something crude along the lines of “ _that wouldn’t be the only sharp object you’ve held against me that I’ve woken up to_ ”.

Maybe he was the sleep-deprived one now, because he found himself chuckling at his unspoken comment.

“You are a truly bizarre creature,” Hubert mumbled.

Ferdinand scoffed. “I am not a _creature_! I am a cultured young man, which is more than I can say for _some_ students at Garreg Mach.”

“But surely you think of me as a creature. You even called me _a little raven_ last night,” Hubert smirked.

“I-I most certainly did _not_ ,” Ferdinand’s cheeks heated once again.

It was a name he had only ever called Hubert in his diary before, never something he meant to say aloud. He knew what happened to men like him who fell for men like Hubert. Would Hubert use this as leverage? Surely he would; he would waste no opportunity to rub Ferdinand’s face into the mud with the bottom of his tall black boot. But, most importantly, would word get back to Ferdinand’s father about his… _indiscretion_?

Ferdinand scowled.

“Perhaps your sleep-addled brain concocted such a scenario.”

Something about Hubert’s eyes betrayed the plastered smirk playing upon his lips.

“Well, if I’m a raven, then you’re a stallion; insecure, flighty, stubborn, all brawn with no brain. A quintessential prey animal that some god pitied enough to make hulking in order to survive just long enough to be a substantial meal for something greater than itself.”

Ferdinand absolutely did _not_ pout at that comparison and _certainly_ didn’t huff in indignation.

“Food’s here!” Caspar knocked, and Ferdinand swore that one of these days Caspar was bound to shatter his door with his might.

“Thank you Caspar,” Ferdinand muttered in his carefully measured _“I am most certainly sick”_ voice. He waited a healthy amount of time before peaking his ginger head out of his dorm, snatching the full breakfast that Caspar so kindly bestowed upon him and Hubert.

Caspar must have elbowed his way through the line, because he grabbed an absolute _feast_. An omelet large enough for a man of Raphael’s size—no, _two Raphaels!_ —seemed to swallow a dinner saucer whole. It was accompanied by two moderately-sized bowls of oatmeal with a healthy sprinkling of fresh raspberries on top. Ferdinand closed his eyes as the strong punch of cinnamon tickled his nose.

Hubert made a motion to get up from the bed.

“You will do no such thing,” Ferdinand said, hefting Hubert’s back forward in order to adjust the many pillows near the headboard to support him before unfolding the walnut wooden tray Ferdinand kept under his bed. Hubert’s thin, long legs were barricaded by the small wooden legs of the tray. Ferdinand placed the absolute monstrosity of an omelet and the much daintier bowl of oatmeal, along with the required silverware, before Hubert.

“While you eat,” Ferdinand said, “would you like to bring you some clean clothes from your room?”

“You’re never allowed in my room without me present in it,” Hubert cautioned him.

“Well you’ll certainly need to bathe today,” Ferdinand put a hand on his hip, bringing his other to fiddle with his bottom lip while he attempted to find a solution for clean clothes. He rummaged around in his dresser drawers until he found the exact nightshirt he was thinking of.

“I know it’s not much, but I’m afraid not much else I have will fit,” Ferdinand offered a small smile, unfolding the long shirt and eyeballing if it would even reach Hubert’s knees.

Hubert didn’t look up from the food placed before him.

“If it’s truly that offensive,” Ferdinand mumbled, “then perhaps you’ll just have to change back into your old clothes.”

Hubert didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

“Hubert? Have I offended you?” Ferdinand knelt beside him. His intention _wasn’t_ to insinuate that Hubert smelled, far from it; in fact, he smelled faintly like delicate eucalyptus soap, even for how oily his hair was. He just wanted to ensure he was being sanitary.

Hubert finally blinked, his eyes meeting Ferdinand’s. The usual brightness to his peridot eyes wasn’t there; they seemed more gray today, but Ferdinand deduced that was most likely due to the storm clouds gathering outside.

The quiet pitter patter of rain against the windowsill caused Hubert’s attention to dart to the glass.

“Did you say something?” he muttered.

“What are you feeling right now?” Ferdinand asked quietly. He instinctively held Hubert’s hand. He was still wearing his gloves from the night before.

“I’m not sure. Distracted, perhaps.”

“Are you worried about the professor and everyone being _actually_ sick?”

“No.”

“Are you worried about not making an appearance before Edelgard today?” 

Hubert’s lip scrunched up in an unsightly way, his thin brows furrowed in thought. He stayed like that for quite some time, before reflexively squeezing Ferdinand’s hand.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” Hubert finally confessed. “I need to get back to work.”

“No,” Ferdinand implored. “Not until those dark circles let up a little. I cannot risk you pushing yourself without at least an interlude.”

He sat on the edge of his bed and grabbed one of the dainty forks that Caspar had provided from the dining hall, carefully cutting into the fluffy omelet. He cut the smallest slice he could, holding it up to Hubert’s lips.

Hubert let out a disgruntled noise. “Don’t you _dare_.”

But Ferdinand dared, now pressing the warm slice to Hubert’s mouth eagerly. Hubert crossed his arms and turned his head away briefly.

“Must you make everything so difficult?” Ferdinand sighed, no malice in voice. How could he? He had held Hubert as he sobbed and tremored, collapsing into a fragile little thing last night. If Ferdinand had it his way, Hubert would never feel so hopeless ever again.

Hubert somehow reminded him of the paper cranes Lorenz used to fold when they were children, all sharp edges to shield his delicateness. Lorenz would always grow frustrated having to show Ferdinand the same steps over and over again, but the accomplished smile Ferdinand would earn from his impatient tutor was worth it. He could never get the lines crisp enough, but Lorenz would always tell him, “You have an eye for detail. It would serve you well to cultivate that natural inclination.”

Ferdinand brushed his thumb along Hubert’s cheek, and as the lankier man started to protest, Ferdinand strategically plunged the fork into his mouth. Hubert at least had enough sense to chew with his mouth closed. He turned away again, the tip of his nose turning a bright peach.

It went on like this for some time, Ferdinand cutting small pieces off for Hubert to chew languidly on and swallow. Hubert’s cheeks and ears glowed with the same peachy flush that his nose did earlier; Ferdinand was careful to not laugh at Hubert’s stubbornness when he chose to turn away to chew each time.

“There, was that so bad? You finished it all,” Ferdinand cleared the plate for Hubert.

He decided to let Hubert eat the oatmeal all on his own but wasn’t surprised when he barely ate anything at all. Hubert was Fódlan’s slowest eater, after all, and perhaps the pickiest as well. Ferdinand finished his entire bowl by the time Hubert moved on to his fourth and final spoonful. He placed the bowl on the nightstand beside Ferdinand’s book.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat so much in one sitting, Hubert,” Ferdinand remarked, unfolding the lap desk and tucking back under his bed.

“My stomach will regret this later, I assure you. It’s all your fault that I ate so much. I wouldn’t want to disappoint my captor.”

Ferdinand laughed. “Oh, so you’re _my_ prisoner now? How dreadful for you. I will be sure to torment you in each and every way I know how.”

He pulled the sheets out from under Hubert and laughed at his agitated glare before pulling up the blanket up around him and fluffing up his pillow again. He pretended to not notice that Hubert’s eyes fluttered closed.

“Should the art of torture interest you as a future pursuit under Her Majesty’s rule,” Hubert mumbled, “you have a natural talent. Between the force feeding and restraints, even the cruelest man in Fódlan would have no choice but to bend to your will.” He attempted to wriggle out of the blankets, to no avail.

“Is that a complement, Hubert?” Ferdinand grinned.

“Perhaps.” A brief smirk graced Hubert’s lip.

“Ah, how is your mouth feeling? I trust that the balm I used helped any chapping or marks?”

Ferdinand was a hunter laying a trap, and Hubert was a tentative little ermine.

Hubert licked his lips slowly.

Goddess, he had fallen for it! Ferdinand’s heart swelled with pride. Of course, he had no one to share his victory with. After all, what would he say? _“I, Ferdinand von Aegir, have made the looming shadow of the future Emperor of Adrestia lick his lips in the most erotic way imaginable, and subsequently imagined what that tongue would feel like against my own”_?

“It appears to have done a passable job,” was all the compliments he would ever get. No matter.

Ferdinand smiled in earnest at Hubert, choosing to not engage with him any longer. He instead took to tidying up his room, folding and handing anything from his hamper.

He quietly hummed an aria from an opera he saw as a child, though truth be told, he wasn’t really sure what the plot was anymore. He only remembered the gaudy pink dress the songstress wore, and his mother’s rather weak hand dwarfing his own when she patted his folded hands. He looked up at her, her honey eyes brimming with warmth and love, rather glassy even in the dimmed lights of the theater.

He rather liked to imagine his mother this way, sentimental and earnest in her affection. He preferred to not reflect upon all the warning signs of her ailing health, even though from a logical aspect, he now recognized there was nothing he could do as a small boy to alleviate her ailments. Still, he wished his parents had been honest with him in regards to her condition.

“Hubert, what’s your favorite opera?” he asked over his shoulder. He believed the answer would give him some insight on Hubert’s stance on romance or tragedy.

Instead, he was met with quiet, steady breathing. Ferdinand smiled when he realized Hubert had fallen asleep. Of course, it made the task of cleaning his room difficult now that he had to remain quiet. But, for Hubert’s recovery, it was worth it.

For the ability to please Hubert, any level of discomfort was tolerable.

***

Hubert heard the creak of the door to Ferdinand’s dorm room open and felt the deep chill of the outside air hit his cheeks. He opened his eyes and groaned, turning to the side. Waking up was rather difficult because he was nestled pretty deeply into the avalanche of pillows and blankets on Ferdinand’s bed. The abominably hot sweat of a midday nap still clung to his forehead.

Ferdinand was right, he really did need to bathe. He vowed he would, soon, after closing his eyes again.

Hubert awoke once more to find that the room was no longer bright with the cold light of the gray sky outside. Instead, the room itself was rather dull, the remnants of scattered sunlight were beginning to fade away. It was impossible to know what time of day it was from a glance out the window. The rain was much heavier now, launching itself against the windowpane.

Hubert’s eyes darted to a piece of paper on a small stack of books placed on the nightstand beside him. The paper was beautifully lined with excessive gold-leafed vines creeping along the edges. He sat up to read it.

_Hubert,_

_I have checked out some books from the library for you. I believe I have formulated something close enough to your reading style for you to stomach._

_Should you actually be awake while I am out, please feel free to help yourself to some of Anette’s cookies courtesy of Bernadetta. (She is feeling much better, if you are curious; I went to check on her in your stead, as I understand that Thursday is typically your usual night you two socialize. She sends her best regards.) The cookies are wrapped in the blue bow on my desk. I request that you save at least one chocolate chip for me upon my return._

_Should you require my services, I will be in the greenhouse tending to an emergency with Claude, Sylvain, and Dedue._

_Faithfully,_

_Ferdinand von Aegir_

_P.S. I will even bring you coffee this evening to reward you if you bathe. I hope an Almyrian blend is suitable for your pallet._

Hubert rolled his eyes; who else who have written the message with handwriting as steady and frivolous as _that_? Does Ferdinand need to sign everything with his full name, like a child just learning how to write? How utterly insufferable.

Out of spite, he might actually eat that cookie Ferdinand so desperately wanted. But, the promise of Almyrian coffee was far too great to risk upsetting Ferdinand over something so petty.

He managed to look at the books Ferdinand brought: _The Infernal Crest_ (the first in a series of books he had poured over as an 8-year-old boy; this seemed more suited to Ferdinand’s taste, as the series dealt so heavily with manners and nobility), a book he flitted through about potions for common ailments such as arthritic pain and toothaches (perhaps this would actually be of use to him), and another book whose pages were so yellowed that the text had faded to a bloodied gray.

Hubert was too stubborn to admit he may have been able to read the text if he wore reading glasses, and thus dismissed the book as unimportant.

Although, if Ferdinand was with Claude and Sylvain and Dedue… perhaps he was hiding something. _Plotting_ something. What exactly, Hubert was unsure, but he had to take precautions for Lady Edelgard.

He would be gone for a bit, Hubert justified, and it was unlikely Hubert would ever return to Ferdinand’s room for any purpose in the future.

He moved to bolt the door shut before deconstructing the room. Start with the bottom of furniture, preferably something like a bed, where the subject would spend much of their time—that piece of advice was perhaps one of the best his own father had ever given him.

Ferdinand unfortunately proved himself more perceptive during this whole ordeal than Hubert had initially realized; he reminded himself to take extra precautions when investigating anything hidden within the room. He lifted the mattress off the bedframe. Nothing out of the ordinary, he surmised. The only thing beneath the bed was the lap desk he had used earlier and a pair of rather insulated house shoes. He even pulled the bedframe from the wall only to find nothing. He placed the mattress back where it belonged.

Well, that was disappointing.

Hubert moved on to the nightstand and opened it slowly; _this_ was far more interesting.

It was carefully crafted, really, Hubert had to give credit where credit was due. But to his trained eye, the false bottom was quite obvious. The tone of the wood was _slightly_ more yellow than the wood surrounding it. Hubert removed all the contents from the nightstand, all terribly innocuous: the balm that Ferdinand had used on his split lip, a pair of pristine riding gloves, a book of psalms, a spare inkwell and quill.

His stomach churned in anticipation for what he may discover underneath; depending on his findings, he would have to report directly to his Lady. Using the fork from his breakfast, Hubert shimmied the false bottom, discovering it was heavier than he anticipated.

He didn’t expect what he found underneath.

A rather large vial of clear liquid sat beside what Hubert could only describe as a perfectly polished dark wooden phallus.

“ _Flames!_ ” Hubert couldn’t hold back his exclamation upon discovering even _more_ degenerate objects; some black lacey… _thing_ (Hubert refused to call it a covering of any kind, especially on someone with Ferdinand’s well-defined figure), a lace choker with a silver bell and velvet bow sewn on, and an immaculate pair of black leather gloves that appeared to cover just above the wrists of the wearer.

Hubert’s stomach dropped. All these things were obviously meant for some woman that Ferdinand was courting. After all, Hubert couldn’t imagine the _real_ Ferdinand, not the minx that strut about in his own depraved mind, using these things on himself. Ferdinand did things out of obligation and archaic chivalry. Surely he wouldn’t wear silky stockings or (Hubert swallowed) fuck _himself_ with that dildo.

These things weren’t meant for him to know, despite the unconquerable and stifling cold sweat of jealousy clinging to his neck. He wasn’t entitled to these. So why was he so conflicted?

Hubert’s eyes were drawn to the mustard book shoved near the back of the drawer. He took extra care to not even nudge the surrounding objects while removing the book.

Hubert flopped on the bed, vowing to pour over the contents carefully. Ferdinand’s personal stash of (admittedly enthralling) objects may not have led to the conclusion of espionage, but he assured himself this book would.

Yes, because that’s why he was reading it; not because he was insatiably curious about any potential clues about Ferdinand’s thoughts, desires, aspirations. Not because he was smitten with the pompous and ridiculous and beautiful Ferdinand von Aegir and longed to feel his touch under better circumstances than the expectation that he ought to care for Hubert like a wounded little animal.

The first few pages had clippings of sentences Ferdinand must have liked from different stories he’s read, interspersed with short, frilly poems and pressed wildflowers. How very Ferdinand. Hubert smiled to himself as he carefully adjusted the wildflowers back in their vellum envelopes. The clippings became intermingled with Ferdinand’s very distinctive handwriting as the pages went on. He gathered sentences people said in conversation and cited their speakers; Hubert even found himself chuckling at a few one-liners of Linhardt’s and Dorothea’s that Ferdinand managed to write down.

Finally, he found a page written completely by Ferdinand’s hand, top-to-bottom, and read it with intent.

_I know I should be grateful for my ability to see him every day, but sometimes I wish I could not. He peers through me with those haunting eyes, mocks me, torments me, assuredly thinks of me as slow-minded and useless. Everyone does. Many times, I am convinced I am the most loathed and unloved creature on this planet._

_This is not to say that I shall give up, not in the slightest. I will prove to everyone that I am capable. Of what? I am not yet certain myself, I suppose._

_I will not stop improving until he notices me, considers me worthy of more than scorn. I would never be an equal—what an insult it would be, were a star to proclaim he shone brighter than the moon itself—but perhaps I would be someone no longer worthy of his perpetual ire._

_Some days, when I allow myself the pleasure of such fantasies, I dream that he holds me, kisses my temples, sings to me. I have heard him sing in secret before, when I had arrived early to stable duty; another time, I heard him in the sauna when I passed by, distracted from humming my very own tune. I very nearly cried. Of course the Goddess mocked me by giving him the most beautiful voice not only when he spoke, but when he sang, too._

_I wanted nothing more in those moments than to drop to my knees and proclaim my unyielding affection, but I knew were I to be so bold as to confess, a fate worse than death would await me._

_My father told me once of the fate of Renier of House Gloucester, a man killed long before I was even a glimmer in my mother’s eye. He had run away with a fellow nobleman; no kin of either man had come to give them their proper rights. I believe this was supposed to be a lesson of some sort, but every interaction with that horrible man is a lesson._

_But where would this leave me, a man who unabashedly admires the male and female form with equal fervor?_

_In a cruel twist of fate, I do not believe if he even were a woman, my father would ever approve. Were he a woman, he would still be from the wrong house, worthless to my father because of his lack of crest. He would not be a “girl-Emperess”, and therefore, like me, would be rendered useless._

_That he is who he is in his current form is what entices me so._

_When I do allow myself the chance, I imagine what he is like when he is truly alone, when no outward expectations are thrust upon him. Would he allow me to rub all those tight knots from his shoulders? Would he laugh sincerely at some outlandish outburst of mine? Would he pet my hair? What would he discuss with me? What would he call me, in the dark?_

_Shamefully, I imagine him in more compromising ways. I wonder how tight he would feel around me, or the lewd commands he would growl out as he finished inside me. I want nothing more than to be his, in any way he preferred, whether that be tender or painful. I imagine his mouth everywhere, anywhere. How enticing those rose petal lips are!_

_Truly, the man could kill me, and I would thank him for the utter courtesy. I am weak to him, and he knows it. He knows I would submit, it is just that he may not understand the true, filthy desire I have to please him._

_Yet, were I given such a chance, I would prove my worth. I would pry those gloves off those beautifully long fingers, run my mouth along those bare palms. Goddess, how I long to see those hands, taste them, feel them! I would shower him with affection. I may even take coffee with him and grow more accustomed to the horrid, bitter taste of it. For him, I would endure such a painful trial._

_In those moments before I humiliate myself by spilling over, I call him ethereal, perfect, mine. He’s my moon and stars, the tyrant of my heart, my little raven. Afterwards, I sob into my pillow._

_I truly am disgusting._

_I suppose ink and parchment are hardly worthy for containing my repugnant love. However, it is all I can afford. If the Goddess is truly great, she will entrust that I may not fall any further for Hubert von Vestra._

Hubert hadn’t noticed the tears in his eyes until he languidly blinked and a liquid trail traced down his hot cheek.

If only Ferdinand knew. No—Hubert shook his head, closed the book, and gently tucked it back in its hiding place—Ferdinand _would_ know.

Hubert would make it known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally forgot to mention, the name for the pic comes from the song Tethered Bones by Talos (specifically the Slow Magic remix). It's a song that's captivated me for years. Also, I have unabashedly based this god damned lip balm off of the Lineage lip sleeping mask, because I'm convinced it's the only thing that repairs busted, cracked lips like nothing else.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy folks, spicy content has arrived. I apologize for the length in advance!

“You know, I didn’t even think it was possible to kill one of these, but you managed to do it. Good job, Sylvain,” Claude clapped sarcastically, and his charming little braid bounced as he did. He sat along one of the planters in the greenhouse and, predictably, was in the best spirit of all of them.

He had given Ferdinand a rather generous bag of the Almyrian coffee blend he promised a week prior, claiming it would “totally” change his outlook on the drink. Ferdinand very much doubted it.

“Hey, I don’t need your sass,” Sylvain poked out his tongue. “Not all of us were born with a green thumb.”

Ferdinand laughed, and Sylvain jokingly pouted in his direction. His hazel eyes were warm with fondness, something that Ferdinand had worked diligently over the last few months to earn from the man. Between their shared love for a certain niche novel series, many shared snacks, and a particular afternoon where Ferdinand played the part of a carrier pigeon for correspondence between a forlorn Sylvain and a rather prickly Felix, the two of them grew quite close.

Ferdinand rushed over as soon as he read the note slipped under his door about Sylvain’s latest greenhouse travesty.

“Sylvain,” Dedue rubbed his elbows in his crossed arms, “I believe I even gave you written instructions to care for it after you were so stubborn as to reject my direct help. Hybrid tea roses are often quite frustrating, even for professionals.”

Dedue’s hair was starting to frizz from the humidity of the heavy rainfall outside mixed with the heat of the greenhouse, and Ferdinand inwardly groaned because while Dedue’s frazzled hair was quite cute, his would be an absolute _mess_ come tomorrow morning. His thick hair never mixed well with rain water, a trait he had inherited directly from his father.

“Yeah, I think I understand why now,” Sylvain grumbled. “Dammit, I was going to be a hit with these.” He plucked the decaying leaves and petals off the plant. He motioned toward the book by his feet. “Thanks for the book, Ferdie, but I guess I won’t be needing it anymore. The whole ‘love language of flowers’ thing really only works if I even _have_ flowers to give her.”

Ferdinand frowned, grabbing his _Love through the Language of Petals_ book. He wiped off the dirt Sylvain kicked up off of it. “Nonsense, Sylvain! I am sure she’ll appreciate the effort, even if the rose died. It matters only that you cared enough for her to nurture the plant, even if you over-fertilized. After all, you chose the much more demanding journey of growing an entire bush rather than simply purchasing the flowers.”

“Wouldn’t we all be so lucky to have a lover as understanding as you,” Claude toyed with a loose thread on the arm of his uniform.

“That’s because he’s a virgin; you can’t get disappointed with your lover’s antics if you don’t got one,” Sylvain laughed.

“Well that’s rather rude,” Dedue remarked. “I do not see how Ferdinand’s purity would influence his encouragement of your efforts.”

Ferdinand’s mouth moved before it received any signal from his brain not to. “I am _not_ a virgin!” Ferdinand puffed out his chest in indignation.

“ _Oh-ho-ho_!” Claude wheezed out. “Finally! I won my bet against Hilda _and_ Lorenz; well, how was it? Come on, you can’t leave us hanging!”

Ferdinand covered his lightly-freckled face. “It was rather suitable,” he answered from his covered mouth.

“Damn, that’s not a glowing review,” Sylvain laughed. “I take it you’re not an item anymore, then.”

“We were never an “item” as you have put it, it was simple curiosity. I did not want to take it any further, as we were far too incompatible,” Ferdinand clarified.

“Well, I guess I should have seen that coming,” Sylvain sighed. “I was kinda hoping it would work out for you is all.”

“My father would have disowned me, no doubt,” Ferdinand said.

He didn’t feel comfortable revealing the truth, that he had discovered that the girl had been paid extra to “educate” Ferdinand in such a way that he would be able to please his future wife, nor how utterly dejected he was when she had declared how unappealing and “lacking” he was rather loudly to a fellow giggling governess.

It most certainly didn’t help that he was growing out of the awkward pudginess of boyhood but was still too young for his mother’s nose and father’s mouth to coexist harmoniously with the rest of his facial features.

“That explains all of the tension, I suppose. You two are quite different. Perhaps there is some lingering unrequited love,” hummed Dedue, rubbing his upper lip.

“Unrequited love?” Ferdinand asked.

“You know what they say, the heart wants what the heart wants. You must be a real heartbreaker, Ferdie,” Claude cupped his chin in his hands and lazily kicked his loose legs beneath him.

“I’m not sure what you are talking about,” Ferdinand wrung his wrist. It was something he did when he was nervous, and his father would swat his hand when he noticed him doing it. Without the physical reminder to not give in to his weak mind, Ferdinand’s old tick resurfaced while he was away from the estate. “She was merely an apprenticing governess under my father’s employment when I was younger; I did not think she went to our academy, though I could be wrong. Goddess, how heartless must I be if everyone’s noticed this tension, and I have not even recognized her this whole time?”

“Oh. _Oh_. I thought you were talking about… well, someone else,” Claude trailed off.

“Hmm?” Ferdinand cocked his head.

“Nevermind, I guess it’s sort of silly at this point. I still won my bet. I’m sorry I pried so much, Ferdie, I just thought it was going to be something more relevant.”

“I should be the one apologizing. It was rather ignoble of me to divulge that information.”

Sylvain propped up his elbows lazily over his knee as he knelt in the soil to inspect the hybrid rose bush more closely and darted back to look Ferdinand in the eye once more. “You guys gotta speak more plainly with Ferdinand. Hubert: we were all talking about you and Hubert.”

“M-Me and Hubert?” Ferdinand’s blotchy blush was back with a vengeance, creeping up his neck, and he feared he had turned the color of the ruddy pink petals that desperately clung to Sylvain’s struggling rose bush.

“I was under the assumption that he had great affection for you under all of that harshness,” Dedue swatted Sylvain away from the plant and pet individual leaves to judge their health.

“I doubt it. I am certain he would love nothing more than to stab me in my sleep.”

“Oh, come now,” Claude ruffled Ferdinand’s hair as he rose from his seat. “He’s clearly obsessed with you.”

Ferdinand shook his head.

“I literally saw him pet a horse the other day, Ferdie!” Claude stood tall and held his arms out with the clear indication that he wanted to waltz with Ferdinand. “He knows how well you do with the horses. You mean to tell me it’s complete coincidence that he all of a sudden wants to touch a, and I quote,” Claude coughed and said, in his best Hubert impression, “ _unrefined, wretched creature that reeks to high heavens_ all of his own accord?”

Ferdinand snorted and tried to adjust himself to a more correct position; Claude wanted to lead.

“He’s only a man, so he’s not completely resistant to your charm,” Sylvain said.

Ferdinand tried to keep his eyes on Sylvain and Dedue as Claude twirled him here and there, always stylish in his movements, though slightly informal.

Sylvain sang some unnamed melody Ferdinand had heard before, his sweet voice filling the greenhouse with loud _“la-dee-de-dah”_ s to combat the rather violent rainfall. He always had a way of making Ferdinand feel at ease.

“Men aren’t generally _supposed_ to feel like that for each other,” Ferdinand finally answered.

“Do you think Linhardt and Caspar’s love is unnatural?” Dedue questioned.

“No! Saints, no! They are so in love with each other that they forget anyone else is in the room. I think Linhardt may love Caspar more than napping itself! Caspar always devotes any spare minute he has to dote on Linhardt. He brings him chocolates, books, blankets, trinkets. I find it touching and very uplifting. But I could never be so open about my affections.”

“And why is that?” Claude hummed.

“My father would disown me,” Ferdinand kept his face down.

“So, don’t let him find out!” Sylvain said. “You think my old man would be happy hearing about how many girls and guys I sleep with every week?”

Ferdinand’s cheeks now hurt from his furious blush. “You… sleep with men, too?” Ferdinand squeaked.

“It’s not unusual, you know. I mean, sure, there are lots of close-minded people you might encounter, but if everyone’s having fun, where’s the harm?” Sylvain shrugged.

“What do you like, Ferdinand?” Claude asked, twirling Ferdinand quite vigorously before taking him in a deep dip. “Oh sorry, that was kind of clumsy of me, didn’t mean to snap your neck. But I mean exactly what I’m asking. What do _you_ like? You. Not what your dad wants, not what you think is “proper”.”

“I… I want someone who can challenge me. Someone who wants to spend time with me, will allow me to care for them and be shown that same overwhelming affection in return. It would not even matter to me if we were in the same room doing completely different activities, so as long as I would be allowed to walk over to them and kiss their cheeks, tell them how beautiful they were,” Ferdinand said.

“I didn’t hear a single thing about whether that person had to be a woman or man,” Sylvain smiled.

“I have never admitted it aloud…” Ferdinand began, but raised his hand to motion Claude to stop dancing. He accidentally tripped backward out of dizziness, and Goddess bless Dedue’s lightning-quick reflexes, as Ferdinand escaped the terrible fate of falling flat on his face.

“Ferdinand, are you alright?” Dedue’s voice bled with genuine concern. Ferdinand appreciated his flustered face and patted Dedue’s shoulder in an effort to dissuade his distress.

“I am quite alright Dedue, thanks to you. You did not need to do that.”

Dedue lifted Ferdinand and placed him back on solid ground like he was a delicate ceramic tea set and would shatter at the slightest incorrect pressure.

“Never admitted what?” Sylvain asked, bowing grandly before Ferdinand. “I promise I won’t twirl you like I’m wringing out a wet rag,” he chuckled. Claude stuck out his tongue. Ferdinand bowed in turn, and gingerly stepped into Sylvain’s arms for another dance. “You were saying?”

“Ah, yes, I… I appreciate men and women.” Ferdinand winced.

“Join the club!” Claude laughed, and this time, his clapping seemed much more animated and heartfelt. "Honestly, I'm thinking about making pins."

“You will not tell anyone, will you?” Ferdinand asked, swiveling his head around the room.

“It is not something for us to tell,” Dedue stated. “That is up to you.”

“Yeah, what the big guy said,” Sylvain nodded.

“Thank you, everyone. I… I greatly appreciate it. I never realized how it would feel to say that aloud. I feel much better!”

Ferdinand couldn’t help but scrunch up his eyes in a wide smile, and as he opened his eyes fully in the graceful dip that Sylvain had taken him in, an upside-down and sopping wet Hubert stared back at him from the entryway of the greenhouse.

“H-Hubert!” Ferdinand exclaimed. Everyone’s gaze averted to the looming man shaking off as much water as he possibly could. Sylvain practically jumped, snapping up his arm and hoisting Ferdinand up with it.

Hubert nodded, shaking his drenched hair like a wet dog and shrugging off his long cloak. It was clear he was holding something in his hands but was covering the object with his removed cloak.

Ferdinand could tell from the smell that Hubert had actually bathed while he was away and thought he caught a whiff of a crisp, inoffensive cologne. There was a lower note of a bright floral scent, perhaps with a hint of gardenia? It was a scent on Hubert he didn’t recognize, but it certainly suited his undertones.

It seemed no one knew how long he’d been standing there before Ferdinand noticed him. His boots still squeaked from the water on their soles as he approached the group.

“Has Mr. von Vestra decided he’d like to dance with us?” Sylvain smirked. “Ferdie’s a great partner, I’m sure he could show you the ropes.”

“I’m not one for dancing, but you knew as much.”

Ferdinand always thought that Hubert was normally a man who liked to play with his food before he ate it, a cat batting around a tired mouse before snapping its neck in his sharp mouth. But when he turned to him, it was as if his sense of fight immediately left.

Hubert’s current expression was eerily similar to when Ferdinand first remembered seeing him as a young child: utterly unreadable, but distinctly sad.

When Ferdinand first met Hubert, his father decided to entertain the Marquis and his son for an evening tea ceremony. Ferdinand must have been about six years old; it was the summer before his mother passed away. The gangly Marquis motioned for his equally-gangly son to introduce himself to the ever-excitable Ferdinand.

Unlike other well-mannered children of nobles that Ferdinand met at such events, Hubert did not bow, or introduce himself with his full name, house, and status straight away. Instead, he peered down at the much-shorter Ferdinand over the tip of his nose.

_“Hubert,” he said in a breathy little voice, before signaling for Ferdinand to introduce himself with a curt nod. “A pleasure to make the acquaintance of the von Aegir heir.”_

Hubert was starting to look more like his father as he grew older; they had nearly the same base facial structure, after all, but there was more depth and exaggeration to Hubert’s features. His nose was _so_ long and thin, his cheekbones _so_ sharp (much like the blades he kept on his person, Ferdinand chuckled).

As a child, he looked almost like a storybook villain, all prominent cheeks and deep-set eyes with an untamable mop of pitch-black hair. But where Marquis von Vestra’s eyes were a dark, pine green, Hubert’s pierced through every subject they peered at. They shifted in the light, sometimes a striking jadeite, sometimes a fresh spring green; whatever shade they were, they were always intense, much like the man those breathtaking eyes belonged to.

Now, though? Now, Hubert’s already green eyes just reverberated with the surrounding greenery. They became something almost too intense for Ferdinand to stomach.

“I need to speak to you, Ferdinand,” Hubert said. “Alone,” he added gruffly.

“We will be on our way,” Dedue bowed his head to Hubert, signaling for Sylvain and Claude to trail behind, like a mother duck with her ducklings.

“Be seeing you, Ferdie. Thanks for all your help with the rose bush,” Sylvain stretched his arms behind his head.

“I’ll save you a seat at breakfast if you want to eat with me and Lorenz,” Claude winked and flashed a grin, practically sprinting in front of Dedue and out of the greenhouse.

“Rose bush?” Hubert asked once everyone had left.

“Ah, yes,” Ferdinand motioned to Sylvain’s droopy, despairing plant. It seemed to sag under the metaphorical weight of being yet another gift for Sylvain’s latest fling. Serena? Serella? Oh, what was her _name_! Ferdinand felt guilty that he couldn’t remember.

Hubert picked up Ferdinand’s book he had lent Sylvain, gathering the unknown object the cloak was gathered around under his arm.

“He was cultivating a hybrid tea rose,” Ferdinand continued. “According to Dedue, they can be rather fickle. Sylvain unfortunately over-fertilized the plant and, well, it appears it will not blossom in time for him to give the gift to his…” Ferdinand struggled to find a suitable word to convey how little actual interest Sylvain displayed for the girl herself. “Love interest.”

“How pedestrian,” Hubert sighed, flipping the pages and examining the diagrams. “The actual plant will outlive that relationship, even if it wilts by Sunday morning.”

“Hubert!” Ferdinand scolded him. “How rude; Sylvain cares very much about her.”

“Does he?” Hubert closed the book, returning it to its previous place along the edge of the planter box. “No doubt a cassanova such as Sylvain Gautier has plenty of other potential partners to choose from. If he cares about her so much, what’s her name? Does he ever discuss her interests? What she loves? What she hates? Does he know her birthday, the way she takes her tea, her innermost fears?”

Ferdinand stepped back. “Do not be cross with me, Hubert. Sylvain’s relationships are none of my concern, I am simply his friend. And even if he does know those things about this girl, it is not his place to tell me. That is reserved strictly for their private spheres.”

There was a thick silence in the air, and Hubert’s eyes refused to meet Ferdinand’s, no matter how Ferdinand shifted about.

Finally, Hubert inhaled loudly. He faced Ferdinand and took a rather large step forward.

“I’m not cross with _you_ , Ferdinand,” he began. Ferdinand watched as his fingertips flexed under that pristine white cloth. “I… I’m angry with myself. I miscalculated _everything_ , and I misjudged you.”

“So you will finally admit to assassinating my character after all these years? I am flattered.”

Ferdinand offered a shallow smile, but Hubert didn’t seem to want to play along.

“I thought your whole existence was insubstantial; I found your constant babbling maddening, your droning on and on and _on_ about nobility utterly useless and idiotic, and your unyielding desire to prove yourself worthy of anyone’s time or affection utterly absurd. And yet, I’ve discovered so much more about you. You cared for me when no one else could, in spite of my harsh treatment of you.”

Hubert let out a shaky breath, gathering Ferdinand’s hand in his.

“I have to confess something. If it upsets you, I understand. We won’t have to speak about it ever again. We can pretend as if this past evening never occurred, that we never shared a bed—that none of this ever happened.”

Ferdinand braced himself for those magic words: _I love you, Ferdinand, more than life itself, I would do anything to make you laugh, I wish nothing more than to spend the rest of my days—_

“I read your diary.”

Ferdinand felt all the color drain from his face and he instinctively clenched his jaw. His hands grew clammy almost instantly. He felt as if his stomach lurched so obviously that Hubert would actually see it drop in his frame and his heart completely stopped.

Oh Saints. If he read it, _all of it_ , then he knew. _He knew_.

That’s what he came here to do; to bargain with Ferdinand, barter for his dignity back under the guise of something more tender.

He had betrayed Ferdinand. That’s what this was.

“You… You—!” Ferdinand felt the anger froth in his chest and boil over like a neglected kettle. He yanked his hand away as if were blistering. “You _scoundrel_ , after everything I have done for you, you would invade my privacy and come here to gawk at me? I knew you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Hubert scowled. “If I hated you, why would I come here to tell you the truth? It would have been a far better strategy to house all of that information in my mind for another occasion. If I hated you, I would make you beg for mercy, I would do everything in my power to air out your dirty laundry, I’d ensure that every salon around the world would be discussing your “depraved fantasies”.”

Ferdinand supposed Hubert was correct. “Why did you come here, then?”

Hubert grumbled to himself under his breath; Ferdinand couldn’t make out most of the words, but heard a clear “stubborn, stubborn man!” He turned away and let his cape pool at the floor.

Ferdinand _knew_ he had identified the smell correctly but had incorrectly assumed the gardenia scent was part of Hubert’s cologne. No; Hubert brought him a soaking wet and haphazard array of gardenias which he must have (unethically) clipped from the monastery’s bushes tucked by the gazebo he sometimes saw Ignatz perched under.

The droplets were getting all over his nice gloves.

“You told Petra that you would have confessed with flowers,” he said rather plainly. He held the flowers out timidly before Ferdinand.

Ferdinand shook his head, still frowning.

“Hubert,” he said.

He wasn’t sure what to say after that. Surely this was all a scheme; Hubert didn’t actually return his affections.

With his free hand, he clasped Ferdinand’s chin in his damp glove.

“Damn it all, Ferdinand, can’t I make it more obvious? Are you playing coy with me? I may not be a poet, but I thought the flowers would make my intentions clear,” he huffed. He briefly closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath before continuing.

“Ferdinand von Aegir—and I _will_ call you that as I confess because I know how much you adore your entirely excessive, frivolous name—you drive me mad. Your voice is always flitting through my ears, and when I close my eyes, I think of your smile. Your _actual_ smile, not that horrendous, plastered grin when something offends your sensibilities or that manufactured smirk you give when you’re worried you’re not worthy of whatever it is you truly want. You’re disgustingly beautiful, and I stay awake most nights wishing I knew how to please you. I…” Hubert breathed, “I adore you.”

Ferdinand could recount almost every romance novel he had read up until that very moment, and he always remembered this: the first kiss between the hero and the object of his affections was slow, fond, shy. That’s how it played out in the stories. Ferdinand had mimicked this kiss with every person he dared place his lips on.

That was _not_ his first kiss with Hubert.

Ferdinand pulled at the taller man’s high collar and their distinctive noses nearly collided as Ferdinand sought to claim Hubert’s lips with his own. Hubert dropped the gardenias and ran one hand through Ferdinand’s perfectly coiffed hair while the other traced along his cheek. Ferdinand was careful to not bite Hubert too harshly, lest he split his lip again, but he worried the flesh with the tips of his teeth and earned a startled groan, gently coaxing out Hubert’s slick tongue.

Hubert’s hand meandered. He trailed along Ferdinand’s face, jaw, neck, chest, traced ardent little circles at his hip. He continued to play with Ferdinand’s hair, earning an eager mewl from the younger man as he pulled a little roughly and bit all along Ferdinand’s neck.

Ferdinand opened his mouth upon the realization that the greenhouse was made of glass.

“Someone might see!” he breathed.

Hubert placed a gentle kiss beneath Ferdinand’s collar.

“Then let them.”

Hubert continued his relentless assault along Ferdinand’s neck. He was thankful that Hubert appeared to be a courteous enough lover to leave his little love bites in strategic, easily coverable locations. Ferdinand never went without his cravat unless he was in the training yard with Felix or Caspar, and he certainly had no intentions to do so now.

Hubert finally withdrew, emitting a shaky little puff of hot air. He grabbed his cloak and wrapped it over Ferdinand. He scooped up the fallen gardenias. Some had been smushed under Hubert’s foot, not that Ferdinand minded at all. He would be sure to place them on his desk and sigh at them each time they caught his attention.

“Do not forget the coffee,” he motioned to the unassuming beige bag where Claude was previously sitting. He giggled as Hubert scurried for it like a von Aegir hound chasing after a ball.

“I’d like to continue somewhere more comfortable, but only if you would prefer,” Hubert called over his shoulder.

Ferdinand _very much_ preferred.

* * *

Hubert did his best to ensure that Ferdinand and his precious, precious coffee remained as dry as possible, but with the torrential rainfall that felt more like pelts of hail than actual water droplets anymore, well, it was nigh impossible.

As soon as Ferdinand turned to shut his bedroom door behind them, Hubert cornered Ferdinand against it. His eyes quickly darted to his own hands. He hadn’t anticipated the rainfall to be _this_ violent and wore his autumn gloves. How careless he was, as the sopping wet fabric was merely a suggestion on his skin; his blackened hands were quite visible.

Ferdinand peeled his own soaked gloves off and threw them carelessly on the floor, which Hubert thought was very decidedly un-Ferdinand. But the young red-haired man was upon his hands before he had time to brace him for what he would encounter.

“Wait, Ferdinand!” Hubert warned, but Ferdinand caught the fabric from his middle finger in his teeth and slowly pulled the wet glove off of him.

It was an image that went straight to his cock.

Ferdinand gasped, lifting the magic-marred hand closer to his face for further inspection.

“This is what you were hiding from me this whole time?” Ferdinand asked, his tone completely neutral.

“The pursuit of Reason has its… disadvantages when one is crestless,” Hubert confessed.

“Does it hurt when I do this?” Ferdinand asked, his question punctuated by a peck to Hubert’s dark knuckles.

“No,” Hubert said.

“I must confess, I find them rather beautiful against the hue of your skin,” Ferdinand pulled the remaining glove in the same fashion he did the other, letting his tongue dart out to taste Hubert’s fingertips. Ferdinand never broke eye contact as he raised Hubert’s right hand up to his lips, dragged his middle finger against his lips, and slipped his mouth all the way to the knuckle.

“You’re a filthy little thing,” Hubert moaned, and Ferdinand bobbed his head and laughed around the digit in his mouth.

“I read pretty far into your diary,” Hubert began. “And one of your entries in particular caught my attention.”

To say such was an understatement; it was more like all the blood in his body engaged in a full out war in order to determine which place needed his blood more, his cheeks or his member.

“Hmm?” Ferdinand hummed, popping that particular finger and moving onto Hubert’s neglected hand. Once Ferdinand seized a couple fingers in his mouth, Hubert thrust them gently to show Ferdinand what he longed to do to him. What he _would_ be doing to him.

“Would you like to be my Pet for the evening?”

Hubert’s diction was deliberate; it was the title Ferdinand recounted Hubert gave him in a dream once, and he confessed to pleasuring himself to that very dream four times _in a row_. Hubert would have to test Ferdinand’s stamina, but it didn’t surprise him that he was as strong as the horses he loved so, so very much.

Ferdinand gasped; well, as much as a man _could_ gasp when his mouth was being finger-fucked.

“What’s your safeword?” Hubert withdrew his slick fingers, a trail of saliva connecting them to Ferdinand’s lewd mouth. He wiped up the saliva and relished in the way the word “chamomile” felt against his thumb.

“Mine is ‘espresso’. Should anything become too much, we will both watch out for each other’s words. Everything stops if you say ‘chamomile’, or I ‘espresso’. We’ll take a moment to recollect, then discuss what occurred. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Sir,” Ferdinand purred, and if Hubert’s cock wasn’t already aching, it was now leaking, too.

“Good boy,” Hubert affectionately brushed his knuckles against Ferdinand’s temple. Ferdinand’s little sigh and wide smile touched Hubert’s heart. He would definitely file that away for future use.

“It’ll be quite dark soon. Gather all your candles and place them about. I want to see you clearly when I take you apart.”

“Yes, Sir,” Ferdinand blushed and smiled in his classic, determined fashion. Hubert always liked that look on him.

It shouldn’t have surprised him so much that Ferdinand would have some desire like this, to please his partner while using sweet little titles and being praised for his willingness and dedication and open affection; Hubert supposed it stemmed from a difficult childhood filled with an unpleasant competition with himself to earn more of his father’s love.

Hubert shuddered.

The last thing he should be doing is psychoanalyzing Ferdinand or thinking of the hideous Duke Ludwig von Aegir as Hubert planned on fucking his beautiful and insatiable son.

Ferdinand made quick work of the room, spacing out the candles—how many candles did one man _need_?—strategically to allow for the most amount of light. He took care to light each one as quickly as possible. When he had accomplished his task, he clasped his hands together behind his back and looked at Hubert expectantly.

“Strip for me, Pet,” Hubert smirked, crossing his arms across his chest. He decided to indulge Ferdinand. “Give me a show,” he added.

Ferdinand always rose to a challenge. He started with his uniform jacket, plucking the buttons slowly and peeling off the wet garment before letting it fall to the floor. He gave a similar treatment to his crisp undershirt, lifting it slightly to reveal a toned (but not overly so) abdomen and tugging at the small sleeves to show Hubert the little tan lines that had formed there when the sun was brighter. Hubert wondered if Ferdinand had practiced this before; he was all grace and fluidity when he moved like this, the bright smile playing on his lips very nearly distracting Hubert from the profound revelation of Ferdinand’s fully nude form.

“Did that please you, Sir?” Ferdinand hummed, placing his hands on his hips.

Hubert smiled at him sincerely and, much less ceremoniously, peeled back soggy layer after soggy layer of his own uniform. He fixated on each curve, each dip, every little freckle and scar and scrape and bruise on Ferdinand’s sun-kissed skin before his eyes inevitably reached Ferdinand’s groin.

Hubert’s mouth went dry. Ferdinand was large, but proportional, a bit thicker than Hubert expected.

Hubert stripped unceremoniously, lacking the artful taste of Ferdinand’s flashy movements. He was much more economical. He now stood naked before Ferdinand, who appeared to be analyzing and assessing him much in the same manner as he did.

“Please, let me show you how beautiful you are,” Ferdinand breathed. Hubert smirked, curling his fingers towards himself as he backed onto the bed.

Hubert was shocked by how innocent Ferdinand’s kisses were, how steady his touch was as his hands danced along Hubert’s own scars, fingertips kissing his sensitive sides and traveling over his rosy nipples. Hubert’s eyes closed under such enthusiastic touches, his own hands touching Ferdinand in the same fashion.

When he opened his eyes, Ferdinand’s eyes were wet in the outer corners.

“Have I hurt you?” Hubert asked, cupping Ferdinand’s face above him, who was currently littering his torso with butterfly kisses.

“No,” Ferdinand said. “I need to hear it. I need you to tell me how _you_ feel, what _you_ need.” He then added quietly, “I would do anything to please you.”

“Isn’t it obvious how I feel, what I need, Ferdinand?” Hubert sighed, added a hint of playful indignation to his voice. He wanted to uplift Ferdinand’s spirit, if only by a little.  
  
“I want to hear you say it all the same,” Ferdinand looked up at him, his eyes twinkling with the promise of tears in the flickering flames of the candles.

This tender man would be the death of him.  
  
“I need _you_ , and only you. I want you to suck on my cock, I want to stuff that pretty little mouth full of my length. I _need_ to feel that tongue against the most aching part of me. I want nothing more than to hear you struggle to take it all.”  
  
Ferdinand flushed and moaned just from Hubert’s suggestions alone. Hubert decided to take it a little further, if only to test his limits.  
  
“I want to make you mine. Swallow my seed like you need it to live, show me how much of a slut you really are. Choke on my fucking cock.”  
  
“S-Shit!” Ferdinand swore and it shouldn’t have done things to Hubert, but _flames_ it did, as was evident by the frenzied twitch of his flushed cock.  
  
“Don’t you want to be a good boy for me?”  
  
“Yes, Sir! More than anything!”  
  
“Then get to work, Pet.”  
  
Ferdinand wasted no time, his eyes trained on Hubert’s face, pressing a sloppy series of kisses and kitten licks down Hubert’s length before taking him into his mouth. Ferdinand’s mouth was indescribably hot and pliant around him, and it took every ounce of self-restraint Hubert had to not yank Ferdinand’s beautiful head down to the thin thatch of dark curls at the base of his groin.

Ferdinand exhaled from his nose, tickling his pubic hair, before he set out on his mission.  
  
He reveled in the visual contrast of his magic-scarred hand against Ferdinand’s awfully bright hair; were he a poetic man, he might have vocalized it, too, commemorated this moment with the most reverent of words. The freckles lining Ferdinand’s cheeks reminded him of a nebula of stars, expanding in the vast traces of the uncharted universe. All of his features were painfully beautiful, powerful, all-consuming, even in the candlelight.

He could cry in this very moment.  
  
Instead, he groaned, “Good boy, so good.”  
  
Ferdinand’s sable eyelashes fluttered from a pent up moan and Hubert sighed from it being choked out around him; Ferdinand was clearly struggling to take all of him, and Hubert couldn’t help but hiss at that realization.  
  
“You’re so good to me,” Hubert assured him once again. He was rewarded with another, deeper moan. “I don’t think I’ve seen a more beautiful sight in my life. How lucky I am to have a little Pet like you.”  
  
Ferdinand closed his eyes and the skin around them crinkled in an effort to smile around Hubert’s dick. He would have the most beautiful crow’s feet in the future, when he was an older and more established man. Hubert rather liked that thought.   
  
“My darling,” Hubert cooed, “may I...?”

He hadn’t even finished his request before Ferdinand’s ocher eyes were wordlessly pleading with him.

“Slap my thigh if it becomes to much,” Hubert warned.  
  
He set a slow, predictable rhythm, pulling Ferdinand’s head up and down on his length in measured strokes.  
  
“Fuck _yes_ ,” he groaned before pumping into Ferdinand’s mouth deeper, more desperately. Ferdinand clearly delighted in this slightly rougher treatment, and Hubert would be lying through his teeth if he said Ferdinand’s sweet noises weren’t taunting him.

He flashed a wicked grin down at Ferdinand before slamming into his engulfing mouth even more fervently. Ferdinand let out a high-pitched moan before his eyes shot open. A wave of panic washed over his face. After earning a shocked gurgle and some rapid slapping to his pale thigh, Hubert realized he was pushing too close to the back of Ferdinand’s throat.   
  
He pulled Ferdinand’s head off him completely, hissing at the loss of his heat, but he leaned over to capture Ferdinand’s salivating mouth in a wholesome kiss.  
  
“I’m sorry, Pet. That was rather uncalled for; your mouth is just too perfect.”  
  
“I suppose there are crueler fates than being considered too perfect for you,” Ferdinand smiled, kissing him back just as chastely.  
  
Hubert longed for that tongue again, however, and darted his own playfully against Ferdinand’s swollen lips. As with all things with Ferdinand, the kiss certainly wasn’t easily earned, but it was syrupy and sweet against Hubert’s eager mouth.

Hubert clutched Ferdinand’s jaw in his hand, tipping back his head dramatically to dig his teeth into the tender skin along that powerful neck and worry the skin with his aggressive ministrations.  
  
“You are _mine_ ,” Hubert growled against Ferdinand’s skin, earning a bob from his neck and a contented sigh. He pushed Ferdinand into the mattress. Ferdinand was leagues above and beyond stronger than he would ever hope to be, but was ever pliant under Hubert’s touch, arching up like a cat into his darkened hands.   
  
“No one at Garreg Mach will ever doubt who owns you, who you come home to each night. I want them to hear your pleasure ring out in these halls.”   
  
He poured an obscene amount of lubricant on his fingers from the uncorked bottle he set on the nightstand earlier when Ferdinand stripped for him.

Ferdinand tried to cover his face, only to swiftly fist his hands in the stark white sheets and let out an indecent cry at Hubert’s finger teasing his hole and slipping inside.  
  
“Of course, I’m sure no one would be surprised to hear the kinds of sounds _you_ make,” Hubert continued, punctuating his words with the extremely methodical and gentle thrusts of his finger inside Ferdinand. “If you can’t be quiet outside the bedroom, it should be no surprise that you can’t keep quiet in here.”  
  
“Sir, _please_!” Ferdinand pled so prettily. Hubert would most definitely reward that.  
  
“What is it that you want, Pet?” Hubert hummed. “You’ll have to use your words like a good boy.”  
  
“More! I, I need _more_. Deeper, please. Please!”  
  
Hubert rewarded Ferdinand by crooking his finger slightly and going deeper, just as he was asked.  
  
He peppered feather-light kisses along Ferdinand’s beautifully toned stomach, lapping up at any old scars he found along the way. 

He decidedly didn’t kiss the angry pink gash bellow Ferdinand’s ribs; Hubert grew angry at himself at his carelessness when he saw the discoloration. It was fully healed—Linhardt was a master at his craft, after all—but it would always be there to remind Hubert of his selfishness that skirmish.  
  
“Had I known you were such a wanton slut,” Hubert purred, distracting himself from his frustration and instead turning his focus deliberately back to Ferdinand, “I would have never let you out my sight. All your lessons would consist of how please me, how to be the perfect little whore for my liking, my use alone.”  
  
Ferdinand’s head was moving about, and his moans were unbearably desperate. He tried to touch his own cock, but Hubert pinned his hand down.  
  
“Now now,” he scolded, “a good Pet will take what I give him, what I choose for his release. If you’re good, I’ll give you the best prize imaginable. You will be good for me, won’t you?”  
  
“Hubert!” Ferdinand gasped, earning a light drag of Hubert’s blunt nails along his waist. It certainly wasn’t deep enough to actually hurt Ferdinand (Hubert made certain of that), but it was enough to earn a fresh prickling of goose flesh from the man beneath him. “S-Sir!” he corrected himself.  
  
“Good boy,” Hubert kissed along his hips, the dips of his pelvis. Flames, how he noticed how beautiful they were when Ferdinand’s shirt rode up slightly when training with Caspar, but never had he dreamed he would be so lucky as to revel in their bare beauty this close.  
  
“Tell me your most debauched fantasy,” Hubert implored, “and I will reward you immeasurably.”  
  
Ferdinand tried to cover his flushing face. Hubert once again pinned his wrist to the mattress.  
  
“Don’t you dare hide away from me,” Hubert commanded. “I want to see you.”  
  
“It is embarrassing!” Ferdinand moaned as Hubert brushed very strategically against his prostate, being ever cautious to not assault the delicate bundle inside him. Yet.  
  
“My little stallion,” Hubert kissed Ferdinand’s cheek before returning to his inner thighs to continue his worship there, “nothing you could ever say in regard to your desires would be embarrassing to me.”  
  
Ferdinand groaned. “I... I have so many. It is an arduous task for me to choose the most depraved in nature, for they are all filthy.”  
  
“Pick one for me, Pet.”  
  
Ferdinand gulped. “I dream of you being my emperor,” Ferdinand began, “and I am but a humble servant boy. I have been rather disrespectful and crass as of late and need to be punished for bringing shame to you and your house.”  
  
Hubert sneered and wrapped his mouth around Ferdinand’s pulsing and flushed cock and took him straight to the hilt. Lacking a gag reflex came handy in two instances: when trying to stomach the cooking from his fellow classmates, and when swallowing Ferdinand’s rather impressive dick.

Hubert now retreated his hand from pinning down Ferdinand’s and instead tightly wrapped the blackened fingers around Ferdinand’s flushed base. He rubbed against Ferdinand’s prostate in earnest and bobbed his head in time.   
  
Hubert tortured him like this for some time, eventually withdrawing from Ferdinand’s cock with a loud, wet pop.  
  
“And how would I punish you, my little minx?” he asked, before slowly continuing his movements.  
  
“You would— _ah!_ —strip me, tell me I was the biggest whore in all of Fódlan. T-That my punishment ought to be severe enough to suit my crime. I would— _nnngh_ , Hubert!—I would... would have to endure your viscous spanking, an unrelenting assault by you, the roughest fuck you could muster! Oh, _darling_ , I won’t last!”  
  
Ferdinand was practically yelling; there was no telling how far Ferdinand’s vulgar voice carried, but Hubert wouldn’t be surprised if even the heavily cloistered Lady Rhea could hear his cries.  
  
Hubert could tell from the spasms in his thighs, the constant tightening and trembling in his testicles, and his quivering cock that Ferdinand was nearly finished. But Hubert, always looking for the upper hand, groaned throatily around Ferdinand.   
  
He was rewarded by the sweetest cry before Ferdinand clasped the back of his head flush with his pelvis and shot violently in the back of Hubert’s throat. Hubert dutifully swallowed everything. Ferdinand groaned in a gravelly voice, taking his cock in hand and carefully sliding himself out of Hubert’s mouth. He stroked his shaft and quietly keened as a small spurt of his cum landed on Hubert’s cheek and dribbled onto his expectant tongue.

Hubert licked his slit clean before gathering the small amount that hit his face on his fingers. He urged Ferdinand to taste himself. Ferdinand hummed appreciatively and did just as prompted.  
  
“Fuck!” Hubert grunted. He was still painfully erect, leaking an almost steady stream of precum.  
  
Ferdinand giggled and flipped over onto his knees. His muscular ass was perfect at this angle, and Hubert just _knew_ Ferdinand knew it, too. He spread his still-contracting hole before Hubert.   
  
He glanced over his shoulder.  
  
“Take me,” he whispered.  
  
Hubert nearly came right then and there, but had enough sense to shake his head and give Ferdinand a resolute little smack before he flipped him over again, urging his hips forward to place a pillow underneath his lower back.  
  
He felt a prickling blush bloom under his skin. “I want to watch you as I claim you tonight.”  
  
Ferdinand smiled confidently back up at Hubert, fully drenched in sweat and determination. Ferdinand reached over and accidentally poured a little too much lubricant in his hands as he gently stroked Hubert. Hubert shuddered under his worship, though it wasn’t long until Ferdinand was half-hard again and lining Hubert’s head up to his entrance.  
  
“Make me yours,” he smiled.  
  
Hubert didn’t need any further prompting.

  
Ferdinand was delightfully tight around him and scorching hot. Both men breathed wordless exclamations at the sensation of consummating something previous unspoken up until that early evening. Ferdinand’s enchanting flush poured over his freckled shoulders and chest now.

“Darling,” Ferdinand sighed as Hubert carefully set a slow and gentle rhythm. “I have wanted you for so long.”

“I know,” Hubert answered. “I read as much.”

“Insufferable!” Ferdinand’s insult would have held more weight if he wasn’t so blissed out underneath him, Hubert chuckled.

Hubert decided he didn’t need soliloquys from Ferdinand right now, he just needed his little gasps, the groans he bit back from those plush lips, the quite praises of “ _beautiful_ ” and “ _mine_ ” escaping Ferdinand. Hubert picked up the pace of his thrusts, but still kept them quite deep.

Ferdinand was an active lover; Hubert secretly feared he may have been the type to just lay there and take whatever his partner was willing to give. But here he was, digging crescents from his fingernails into Hubert’s wiry arms, rocking his hips in such a way that encouraged Hubert to piston into him.

Ferdinand was beautiful and excessive in everything he did, and Hubert was grateful for it as Ferdinand gasped out a raspy “ _harder, harder_!”

“You know what to say if it hurts?” Hubert asked, still vigorously filling Ferdinand to the brim.

“Chamomile. Please, give it to me!”

Hubert delivered one final kiss upon Ferdinand’s expectant lips before he utterly impaled Ferdinand on his cock. Ferdinand’s voice was growing even more hoarse from the noises he made, and Hubert found that he, too, was starting to unravel. His thrusts were more shallow than before, but the sheer amount of lube that Ferdinand had slicked on him earlier now trickled down to his testicles; it made an obscenely loud, wet slap when he fucked into Ferdinand with no mercy.

Hubert threw his head back to moan, only to bob his head forward when he heard Ferdinand’s desperate plea.

“I cannot hold on anymore!” Ferdinand was barely even tugging at his own cock but Hubert could feel the tell-tale signs that he was close.

“Then cum for me, Ferdinand!” Hubert gritted out.

Hubert’s command was what was needed for Ferdinand to release the floodgate to his pleasure, it seemed, as he convulsed around Hubert and eagerly spent himself on his own chest and abdomen, choking back a scream.

The sight was too much for Hubert.

He was only vaguely aware that he was the loud one now, howling into the juncture between Ferdinand’s neck and shoulder; his innermost thought launched itself out of his mouth.

“Fuck! Ferdinand, **I love you!** ”

And with that (rather loud) declaration, Hubert pulsed inside of the stubborn man he so desperately craved for so long, longer than he was willing to admit. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever had an orgasm last so long, groaning as he felt wave after wave after wave. Hubert kissed him deeply, all tongue and teeth as he emptied himself.

Hubert placed his full weight on Ferdinand, only loosely aware of his softening cock and the sticky slickness between their bellies from Ferdinand’s second orgasm of the evening. He made no effort to withdraw from him.

Ferdinand brought his fingers to his lips, kissing each pad, each knuckle, each palm with the same devotion he kissed the feet of the saint statues with. Hubert remembered spying on Ferdinand doing so last week and positively shaking with the jealousy within him, balling up his fists as he realized he would never feel such consecration.

What a fool he was.

“And I love you, Hubert,” Ferdinand punctuated his quiet statement with the tenderest of kisses.

“My little stallion,” Hubert whispered.

“My little raven,” Ferdinand answered.

Ferdinand interlaced their fingers together. Hubert didn’t remember anything after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to crank out this latest chapter, and there’s definitely more filth and fluff to come. Tags will change with more additions; I also think this may very well be the longest chapter as well. The song I had playing in my head the entire time I wrote the greenhouse scene was Knight Ali’s “Honey Love”, but if you happen to NOT like that remix, that original song is “September Rain” by Makoto Matsushita; he has another song called “Love Was Really Gone” which is great also.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 should be out in the next week! The hurt/comfort tag and a few other kink tags have been added as a warning. I fear that it’s going to be the longest chapter yet. Please forgive me for the length! This particular chapter's quite fluffy, so you’ve been warned.

Ferdinand was an early riser, as always—after all, it was common courtesy for a noble to begin his day early, to ensure he was fresh-faced and ready to claim the bounty the day lay before him—but he wanted to relish in the feeling of waking up with Hubert this particular morning.

Perhaps he would even get lucky and delight in Hubert’s mouth once again. Or twice. Potentially three times.

“Good morning, darling,” he cooed, still not opening his heavy eyes. He lazily traced his hands along Hubert’s torso, much more plush than he remembered from the night before. He wondered if the callouses forming on his hands would bother him if he kept fixating on his skin, and so apologized by kissing him thoughtfully.

But the texture beneath his lips was distinctly inhuman and not at all like the smooth, shaven skin of Hubert’s chest he had so delighted in. Ferdinand opened his eyes to discover he was entwined with a series of pillows; there was no trace of the man he had surrendered to in his bed.

Ferdinand frowned and closed his eyes again for a brief moment. Perhaps he offended Hubert with his eagerness. Maybe it was all too much too soon for him. Ferdinand cursed himself for being so stupid.

But as Ferdinand began to doubt his intentions, he remembered Hubert screaming in the crook of his neck that he loved him.

_He loved him!_

Sometimes, he wanted to capture moments forever, turn them over in his hands. He would play them in his head over and over like a stage play: predictable, comforting, and wholly entrenched in blending the imagined with the tangible.

Hubert professing his love was one such moment.

Ferdinand sat up and stretched, reaching for his gold-detailed pocket watch upon the nightstand. _7:20_ ; class was set for 8:00, sharp. It was much later than he would have preferred waking up, but it would have to do.

He sprung out of bed, making quick work of fixing the sheets and blankets and pillows. He turned to his desk to find a wonderful sight: the slightly wounded gardenias spilled over his small mercury glass vase, the bright green and white of the flowers contrasting beautifully with the cobalt blue and silver tendrils of the vase. A little folded note lay beside them, and Ferdinand opened it.

_Good morning._

_I left early to tend to an important matter._

_I will see you in class; don’t be late._

_Expect me late this afternoon._

_\- H._

Ferdinand couldn’t help but smile. Hubert’s handwriting was near-illegible and most certainly scrawled very hurriedly, but there was something so distinctly _him_ about the way the black ink was scribbled so methodically against the pristine white paper. He carried the note to his nightstand, shimmied the false bottom, and tucked it into his diary.

What kind of a man would he be if he didn’t hold on to any trinket, no matter how small, Hubie was willing to give? ( _Hubert_ , he corrected himself, as he had a sinking suspicion the shadowy man would reprimand him for being called something so sweet.)

Ferdinand couldn’t deny it: he was hopelessly in love.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to be somewhat annoyed upon discovering that Hubert had only left him a singular chocolate chip cookie from Annette for a quick breakfast and left some crumbs from the massacred cookies in his wake.

After brushing the little remnants of cookie into the waste bin, Ferdinand took to dressing himself. He opened his wardrobe and examined himself in the mirror.

Oh _Saints_.

Hubert hadn’t been nearly as gentle with his neck and clavicle as he initially thought; deep pink, red, purple, and yellowing-brown marks littered the area in an almost-perfect necklace of irritated blood vessels. He only had two plum-tinged hickeys on his pelvis, though thankfully those would be much easier to cover.

The unsightly dried cum on his stomach, however, needed to be dealt with immediately; he took a clean washcloth and a bit of soap from his bath caddy and water from the pitcher he always kept at his desk and furiously scrubbed at his skin. To say it was irritating was an understatement, and it took far too long to wipe away the evidence of their lovemaking. Ferdinand glanced at his watch again. _7:40_.

He made an executive decision to forgo brushing his rather wild hair (it would only fluff out more if he dare take his boar hair brush to it) and instead concentrated all of his efforts on brushing his teeth and spritzing his cologne in strategic areas; he lacked the time to press his uniform to his particular standards, but prayed the job would suffice for their lecture on unit movement today.

He managed to make it to class _just_ in time to sit next to Petra, who was uncharacteristically towards the back with Dorothea; normally, Petra preferred the front of the classroom, and Ferdinand always thought she was a vision of beauty when she was drenched in the early sunlight, tucking a stray burgundy strand behind her ear and sticking her tongue out slightly when she took feverish notes. Petra was turning over Dorothea’s favorite hat in her hands before wiggling it onto her own head.

Dorothea looked Ferdinand over as he uncharacteristically plopped down in his seat for the day. She guffawed, gripping her stomach.

“Your _hair!_ Ferdie, you look like a sheep!” she snorted.

Of course, everyone turned around at that exclamation—everyone except Hubert, who sat in the first row, keeping his eyes trained on the blackboard in front of him. Ferdinand didn’t mind his classmates giggling at his appearance, but his heart clenched as Hubert decidedly _didn’t_.

If Ferdinand claimed to learn anything from that day’s lecture—save for the extensive lesson on cavaliers and their supporting role on the battlefield—he would be a filthy liar. No, he spent the entire class staring at the back of Hubert’s head, the annoying voice in the recesses of his mind scraped at him internally, whispering _he will not look at you because_ _you repulse him_ and _why did you ever think you would be worthy?_ He deserved this little private punishment; he was sloppy, careless, disgraceful. Hubert most certainly wouldn’t profess his love again all because he squandered it on Ferdinand in an act of desperation and was clever enough to retreat with his pride mostly intact.

Professor Byleth concluded the lecture with little fanfare, shrugging her shoulders with a taciturn, “Well folks... Dismissed. Have a good weekend.”

Ferdinand always thought her manner of speaking was rather odd; she was quite direct with them all, a touch informal from her upbringing he justified, but as he had come to discover over these past few months, her candor was advantageous in both her instruction in the classroom and in the field, applying practical lessons to experience.

Ferdinand trailed abysmally far behind his departing classmates and his professor, who was currently swept up in a conversation with Bernadetta, Petra, and Edelgard. He shoved his mostly untouched notebook and textbooks in his bag, only for an all-too-familiar hand to land on his desk.

Hubert looked down at him, but there was a difference in his demeanor; he wasn’t as callous, and his tear troughs were a slightly lighter shade of gray. He must have actually slept a little in Ferdinand’s arms.

“Would you… would you still care to spend time this afternoon with me?” Ferdinand choked out. “If you would prefer to do something else—”

Hubert said in a soft voice, “I will be with Lady Edelgard this afternoon attending to a matter, but I am yours for the rest of the evening.”

“I will be expecting you, then,” Ferdinand nodded in turn.

Hubert withdrew from Ferdinand all too soon; the irrational part of Ferdinand’s mind urged him to pin Hubert to the cold wall of the classroom, lap at the shell of his ear, demand an apology for being so willfully ignored for the entire lecture. But he knew, deep down, that it was impossible to get away with such a display in such an exposed place.

When Hubert offered a tender smile in his direction before departing, Ferdinand thought perhaps he _was_ worthy of his love, just this once.

Ferdinand perked up upon seeing Lorenz waiting outside, hugging his ridiculously large bookbag and equally large wicker basket. He swayed lightly on the balls of his feet.

“Ferdinand! I have simply found the best place today!” He threw back his head and released a carefully metered little laugh.

Lorenz always managed to find the best places for their Friday afternoons together; it didn’t surprise Ferdinand one bit that someone as composed and impressive as him had such an astute eye for beautiful places, people, things. He was wonderful at entertaining guests and suffocating them in excess, even if he was away from his grand estate.

Lorenz sat in a shaded area along the monastery walls, while Ferdinand was perfectly happy to close his eyes against the warmth of the unwavering sunlight. The creeping green vines and small flowers clung to the brickwork around them, rustled in the gentle autumn breeze. Ferdinand always enjoyed a bright day after a particularly hard rain.

This particular lunch Lorenz _insisted_ on paying for as his father had increased his allowance recently, thus allowing him to indulge in some frivolities with Ferdinand.

The blanket barely had any room for Ferdinand to rest on as he spoke, so he sat cross-legged. It was littered with an impressive array of artisan cheeses (Ferdinand dared not go near the offending blue cheese spread), thinly-sliced meats, gleaming jams of varying shades of yellow and red, buttery biscuits and crackers and a thin baguette, little finger foods like olives and pickles, and a petite little cake with piped lemon-tinged icing.

The spread was complete with one of the most beautiful tea sets Ferdinand had seen in years, a faint pink color adorned with hand-painted blue herons. Lorenz kept their lunch time tea in an insulated teapot his father had sent as a gift when Lorenz first arrived at Garreg Mach, heating it with magic in order to impress Ferdinand. Ferdinand _was_ impressed, to be sure, but he was mostly impressed with the teapot itself. It was currently filled with a very fragrant blend—he smelled a strong orange overtone, with just the slightest tinge of something crisper lingering underneath.

“Please, help yourself, Ferdinand!” Lorenz motioned with his hand. “Seeing as how I am the host this afternoon, I will let you prepare your plate first.”

Ferdinand was sure to give his thanks to Lorenz, who utterly gushed at the acknowledgement concerning his expertise in all matters hosting; Ferdinand stacked his plate tall with the enchanting and expensive snacks Lorenz had acquired.

“My, you must be quite hungry,” Lorenz gawked as Ferdinand ate like a man starved. Perhaps it was because he was, which he supposed only made sense; he missed dinner last night and burned a considerable amount of calories from his rather rigorous _activities_ with Hubert.

Ferdinand was sure to dab his mouth with a napkin before speaking to Lorenz. “It seems you have procured the perfect medley of flavors for my pallet today, Lorenz. Please forgive me if my gusto offends!”

Lorenz let out a delicate little laugh before bringing his hand to his cheek. “Not at all, my friend, I am just happy to spend some time with you, what with you being sick yesterday. If it’s any consolation, Leonie and Lysithea got sick from that forsaken pudding as well; I found it too… wiggly-lookingfor my tastes, a most unnatural consistency for a dessert like that. Do you feel any better? You look better, save for the poor state of your hair.”

“Most certainly; thank you for asking.” Ferdinand thanked his lucky stars that Lorenz hadn’t seen the state of his hair even earlier that day, as he would have gotten an earful about looking presentable, setting an example as a noble for how _all_ his classmates should care for themselves.

He flashed a genuine smile at Lorenz before glancing at the source of movement behind him.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Claude mock-bowed with his lute in hand, gingerly perching along the vine covered wall. He hummed, tuning the strings to the correct pitch before casually strumming to no discernable tune in particular.

When Ferdinand, Dedue, and Sylvain would congregate in any of their rooms, Claude usually brought his lute along to play coy little melodies for Sylvain and himself to sing along to; Ferdinand praised him for his skill quite often, but it was especially pleasing today to hear the warm strings out in the open air, not confined to the cold dormitory walls. Music was always best enjoyed in the company of others, Ferdinand felt.

“Do you mind, Claude?” Lorenz squinted his eyes and jutted out his rosy lips. “I’m trying to have a peaceful lunch with my dear friend, we don’t need your racket.”

“ _Pffft_ , racket?” Claude scoffed, clearly hoping Lorenz would play along with him; it didn’t have its intended effect, as the taller man turned up his feline nose.

Claude smirked. “Would you like me to serenade you two?” he asked.

Ferdinand exclaimed “Yes!” simultaneous with Lorenz’s “By the Saints, no!”

“Well, majority rules!” Claude plucked the strings strategically, stringing together a pleasant little melody. Of course, it was no aria, there was no great fanfare, but Ferdinand didn’t need that today.

“ _Why_ are you bothering us?” Lorenz rubbed his temples, though it was obvious to Ferdinand he was only feigning a headache. It was a coping mechanism of sorts Lorenz often did when they were children, particularly when one of the Gloucester’s maids pestered him to check on the rose garden or he had been interrupted during one of his many prattling stories.

“Well, I mostly came to bother Ferdie,” Claude shrugged. He withdrew Ferdinand’s beloved edition of _Love through the Language of Petals_ from his bag, a smidge of dirt smudged on the powder blue cover (undoubtable an accident from Sylvain the night before); he handed it back to him.

“I just figured you forgot it in your distraction,” Claude winked.

Oh Goddess, did he know? Did he _see_?

“Distraction?” Lorenz arched up one of his perfectly manicured eyebrows, further accentuating his fair features.

“I was merely swept up in a conversation with a classmate,” Ferdinand explained.

Technically it wasn’t a lie, per se, rather just that he omitted every pertinent piece of information. He prayed the cold sweat shivering up his neck wasn’t visible to the naked eye.

“Well I hope you weren’t saddled with speaking to Hubert. Honestly, that man is positively devilish!” Lorenz grimaced as he looked into the golden-tinged tea in his cup before closing his eyes and drinking it daintily. “He’s unequivocally revolting; I cannot for the life of me understand how you all deal with him in the Black Eagles House.”

“Ouch, Lor, that’s not very nice.” Even though Claude fake-pouted, his eyebrows quirked up in a rather persuasive way. It was almost enough to fool Ferdinand, but not quite.

“I don’t care if it’s _nice_ , it’s simply the _truth_ ,” Lorenz emphasized his words with a swish of his pallid hand.

Anger bristled inside Ferdinand; were he to defend Hubert out of love, he would surely raise suspicion. Although Lorenz wasn’t terribly close to his father, somehow Ferdinand’s own father could very well hear of his son’s indecent attractions through Lorenz’s casual recollection of the day’s events in a letter. Were he to play along so cruelly, he could never forgive himself, he could never look at Hubert in the eye and tell him honestly that he would always defend his honor.

Ferdinand decided he would play as close to the truth as he could without being caught in the spiderweb of precariousness Lorenz had accidentally woven for him.

“That is where you are wrong, Lorenz. Hubert has proven to the Black Eagles over and over that, while he may not be the most outwardly affectionate or sentimental man, he cares deeply for us as his classmates. Were you fortunate enough to spend more time around him, you would surely understand our affection towards him. He is calculated, effective, clever, a powerful mage and, most importantly, a steadfast friend.”

The entire time Ferdinand gave his impassioned speech, Claude was mouthing _something_ to him. Alas, Ferdinand could never read lips well, but he could tell something caught Claude’s attention from the fervent waggling of his eyebrows and his eyes constantly darting up and down in an effort to grab his attention.

Ferdinand dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. He didn’t appear to have any crumbs from the biscuits lingering on his mouth. Surely something else was bothering Claude. Was it _that_ obvious that he hadn’t groomed his brows that morning?

“Ferdinand, you poor thing! Have the bugs been attacking you as well? I have heard that they have a penchant for noble blood such as ours, as it is rich in nutrients and quite sweet to their offensive little taste buds,” said Lorenz. “Your bites look quite agitated. I carry aloe vera on my person at all times for this same purpose!” Lorenz proclaimed. He rummaged around his lavender-dyed leather book bag, inspecting little jars of liquids, mousses, and gels.

Claude looked at Ferdinand and covered his mouth as he pointed to his neck. After wincing from touching his neck, Ferdinand now realized two stray love bites were visible right above his slightly loosened cravat; he inwardly cursed himself for not realizing it sooner.

“Ferdie’s pretty sensitive to bug bites,” Claude laughed, easing the focus off Ferdinand in order to concoct some perfectly crafted lie; he would be sure to thank Claude properly later, perhaps with the spice-infused tea blend he had been saving for a special occasion to share with him.

“Poor guy was getting eaten alive by mosquitos in the greenhouse last night. I’ve got thick skin, so the barrier between the little blood-suckers and I is probably better than Ferdie’s.”

“As I said, noble blood is tempting and sweet,” Lorenz drawled, offering an immaculate little jar of clear gel to Ferdinand; Ferdinand dabbed a generous amount to his hickeys.

Claude sneered at him and Ferdinand was at least able to make out a very exaugurated “ _good job!_ ” formed by Claude’s silent mouth and a quick little thumbs-up.

This was going to be a longer lunch than he initially expected, Ferdinand sighed.

* * *

Hubert enjoyed his Friday afternoons debriefing his findings with Edelgard; this particular afternoon, Hubert took to repairing a light snag in Edelgard’s nightdress as they spoke, as her bedpost caught the fabric just so. Hubert’s father had taught him to sew as a child; it was a practical life-skill, he insisted, one that would serve him well.

Edelgard hummed in thought as she took to her wide paper splayed out on the easel with her charcoal. The subject of this Friday’s portrait was their own professor, if the size of those dark, dead eyes was any indication.

“You seem tense today,” Edelgard said plainly. The charcoal lining her hands reminded Hubert of his own skin; the difference was that Edelgard’s skin was temporarily tainted by producing art, while Hubert’s was permanently warped because he indulged in art of an altogether different form.

“One can never rest while _they’re_ still out there doing some hellish bidding,” Hubert answered honestly. He pulled the needle through with care. All the stitches had to be perfectly symmetrical for Hubert’s liking.

“That isn’t what I meant. Do you mean to tell me something?” Edelgard turned away from her portrait to stare directly at Hubert.

“Unfortunately, I have nothing more of note to report.”

Edelgard sighed, turning her attention once again to the canvas. She drew a placid mouth to match those huge eyes.

Hubert stopped sewing. Edelgard would certainly sniff him out sooner rather than later, and truth be told, he couldn’t bear to keep a single secret from her. He was uncertain how to string the words together, however; how much could he afford to divulge? After all, to confess the _whole_ truth—that he and Ferdinand made love, that he had even _said_ the word out loud and given a name to the fluttering feeling in his chest, that he had temporarily forgotten anyone or thing existed beyond Ferdinand’s sweet mouth and filthy ministrations—would be deplorable.

To say the childish phrase “I like Ferdinand” would put shame to what he actually felt.

He opened his mouth to speak and Edelgard studied him, as if she expected a trickle of words to escape. Hubert was utterly frozen.

“I looked for you _everywhere_ last night,” Edelgard explained. “I grew worried, it’s very unlike you to miss class without notifying me first. Of course, I tried your room first, then the library. But… I saw you two kissing in the greenhouse.”

Hubert accidentally pricked his blackened finger with the sewing needle. He sucked what little blood pooled there.

“I was unsure of how to tell you what happened last night, my Lady. I hope you can forgive my indulgence in a… personal matter.”

“Hubert, please don’t grovel at my feet. You’re not a dog.”

“My apologies.”

“Stop. There’s no need to apologize. You are not an unfeeling automaton. It doesn’t surprise me that such a passionate and devoted man such as yourself has fallen for someone so zealous about their own ambitions and fidelity,” said Edelgard.

She smiled at him, his favorite kind of smile on her, too; Edelgard’s mouth remained closed, but her lips thinned out as they quirked up, her sharp lilac eyes softened around the edges but retained their round shape.

“I’m… actually very happy for you, Hubert. Underneath all that raucous energy, he’s actually a very gentle friend. But I only ask this of you: that you remain impartial enough for our cause. Should the political castration of the Duke lead Ferdinand to—”

“I would more than sufficiently snag that loose thread, Edelgard.”

Inwardly, though, Hubert’s stomach lurched. In his mind, he took Ferdinand to bed for the last time, traced his fingers against that large scar and reveled in the redhead’s breath hitching. He would stare into those sweet eyes, drawing forth a honeyed _“I love you so dearly, little raven”_ before mercilessly slitting that freckled throat wide open in an amazing display of betrayal.

“Hubert,” Edelgard’s steady voice pulled him from the inky depths of his imagination. Worry now colored her delicate features. He cursed himself for making her so visibly uncomfortable; it was unbecoming of him.

“All I ask is that you’re careful,” she said.

“Of course, my Lady. I am nothing if not efficient.”

“You’re much more than that,” she assured him. “Now, I unfortunately must send you on your way. Should you see Caspar on your way out, would you remind him of my dinner plans with him and the Professor? I fear that our loud little friend may be late, as always.”

Hubert bowed, placing his bare hand on his chest, before dutifully covering his hands with his gloves. Edelgard watched him unfold the snow-white gloves with care; her interest in his hands was undoubtedly different than Ferdinand’s. With Ferdinand, Hubert didn’t feel the underpinnings of guilt.

“Hubert,” she called out once more.

“Yes, Edelgard?” he asked.

“Congratulations,” she smiled.

He nodded, a slight twinge to his lips betrayed his inward command to remain composed.

He closed the door behind him, drifting down the hall. Hubert hadn’t seen Caspar as of yet, but knew he would pass his room on his way to Ferdinand’s. After all, he did promise earlier in his slapdash note this morning that he would visit and confirmed as much to the wide-eyed young man after class.

The look of surprise on his face confirmed to Hubert what he had feared—that Ferdinand believed it was a singular, isolated event, that Hubert didn’t actually mean to hold him again. Hubert would prove that wrong.

In truth, it was excruciating waking up that morning in those strong arms, to watch Ferdinand’s soft, sleeping face, only to retreat back to his much-colder room and study more information about a draught he was working on from the book of potions Ferdinand checked out from the library.

If Ferdinand allowed him the pleasure of kissing him again today, he made no promises to himself to hold back.

Upon the precipice of Caspar’s dorm, Hubert knocked quietly.

“Cas,” Linhardt huffed very audibly behind the door. “You know I hate it when you tease me. Just fucking do it already!” It seemed as if he and Linhardt hadn’t heard his efforts to rouse Caspar to his promised evening with Edelgard.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie-pie. Why don’t we try to break our record today? I know you gotta meet up with Hanneman soon, but you think we can beat it?”

Caspar must have given Linhardt a rather saliva-ridden kiss from the sloppy noise Hubert heard.

It would have been repulsive if he hadn’t heard the distinct slap of skin against skin and Linhardt’s breathy chant of “ _fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck yes_!” intermixed with Caspar’s loud praise of how gorgeous Linhardt was. And it wasn’t as if Hubert was particularly attracted to either of his classmates (Linhardt’s apparent allergy to anything that even remotely constituted work and Caspar’s horrendous and grating voice certainly saved him from that dreadful fate), but their enthusiastic lovemaking brought forth the fond memories of being with Ferdinand in the lambent candlelight, of feeling his lips, being inside him, reveling in all his glory.

Hubert adjusted himself through his clothes. He had to see Ferdinand to resolve this straight away.

As Hubert practically stormed down the hall to Ferdinand’s room, Hubert overhead Caspar shout, “YES! We beat our record! I’m so proud of you, sweetheart!” and Linhardt’s equally-loud “Do you have to announce it to the whole school, Cas?!”

Absolutely disgusting.

* * *

Ferdinand couldn’t think of anything sweeter than this.

Hubert was in his naked lap as he sat on the edge of his bed, kissing him deeply, fingernails digging lightly into his scalp. His weight was perfect against Ferdinand’s growing arousal and the light rolling of Hubert’s hips encouraged him. He sighed openly against Ferdinand’s dominating tongue, emboldening his rougher kisses. Ferdinand traced all along Hubert’s spine.

Ferdinand grimaced into the kiss; Hubert was still fully-clothed and he suddenly realized he never got a chance to see Hubert’s back at all. He didn’t know how the skin there felt against his fingertips. He didn’t see the way Hubert’s ass curved. He only knew that, for as long and elegant as Hubert’s cock was, he had quite a small, tight ass; Caspar accidentally brushed against it _once_ during a training drill and whispered to Ferdinand later about how odd it felt under his hand.

Ferdinand, of course, told Caspar how reprehensible the topic of conversation was; in secret, he spent the rest of that lunch wondering if Hubert would ever be so gracious as to bend over from the hips in the future to pick up anything so he could assess the curvature and size for himself.

Hubert withdrew from the kiss, wiping their shared spit from his thin lips.

“I’ve disappointed you somehow,” he surmised.

“No, darling, I was just thinking,” hummed Ferdinand. He placed a little kiss on the tip of Hubert’s long nose.

“ _The_ Ferdinand von Aegir, thinking? Now that’s dangerous,” he scoffed.

“Hey!” Ferdinand pouted, giving Hubert’s cock a gentle squeeze through the thick fabric of his pants. The action earned him a quiet little sigh. “I just realized, darling, that I did not see all of you last night.”

“Yes you did, you proud fool. I fucked you thoroughly and properly, fully nude.”

Ferdinand laughed. “You did bed me properly, but I did not see your backside,” he said, emphasizing his words by languidly trailing his hands to Hubert’s ass and giving it an affectionate pat.

Hubert frowned, darting his eyes away. “It’s rather unsightly,” he commented.

“Nothing on you could ever be described as such,” Ferdinand assured him. “Let me see you.”

Hubert stepped out of his lap, grabbing his jacket and attempting to strip. Ferdinand stopped him.

“Allow me, darling,” Ferdinand kissed Hubert’s cheek.

It felt much more intimate to peel off his layers like this, with his hands all over him. He felt as if he were holding a blooming flower in his hands. Hubert’s pale skin positively glowed under the bright afternoon light pouring into Ferdinand’s bedroom, a delicate white rose blossoming in a leisure garden.

Hubert, now fully nude, turned around for Ferdinand. His back was so _lovely_ , his narrow waist and hips perfectly contrasted by the light muscles forming along his upper back and shoulders. There was a long, thin silver scar that ran right above his lower back. Hubert promptly covered his bare ass with his stained hands, which Ferdinand lightly brushed away; Hubert then clutched his sides and shifted uncomfortably under Ferdinand’s gaze.

“Why are you covering yourself, little raven?” Ferdinand asked, kissing Hubert’s slightly flat (but utterly adorable) ass cheeks, earning an uncharacteristically undignified sound from the pale man. They sloped elegantly, just the perfect amount for Ferdinand to grab a handful. He didn’t know what Caspar was talking about; Hubert’s backside was as striking as the rest of him, certainly not _odd_.

“I feel… inadequate,” he finally answered as Ferdinand continued kissing up his entire back. “I’m out of place like this, what with how every man in this damned academy is built like an ancient Faerghan statue. Mine is a body for specialized work, not one that demands to be written in some salacious novel Sylvain would surely masturbate to.”

Ferdinand swept Hubert up off his feet and flopped him face first on the bed.

“Allow me to worship you properly, then, to alleviate those unfounded fears,” he said.

He felt Hubert grumble angrily about being hoisted onto the mattress like that, but all his grumbling instantly dissolved when Ferdinand set to massaging the base of his neck and his shoulder muscles.

Ferdinand twitched uncomfortably from the absolutely lascivious sounds Hubert was making into the pillows from his ministrations, all heavy groans and “ _right there_ ”s. After several minutes, when Hubert seemed to lose the ability to hold his head upright anymore, Ferdinand applied some slight pressure from his elbow onto the juncture where Hubert’s back muscle almost met his spine. Hubert keened.

“I realize a Vestra’s work is never done,” said Ferdinand, “but you should allow an Aegir the simple pleasure of doting on you when your body grows so tense.”

Ferdinand was careful when kneading Hubert’s ass; he didn’t want to put the man in pain, after all. His efforts seemed to pull off, as Hubert melted completely into his touch. He was just as affected by Ferdinand as Ferdinand was by him, it seemed.

“My word is still ‘espresso’,” Hubert managed to lift his head far enough off the pillow for Ferdinand to understand him.

“Mine remains the same as well,” Ferdinand kissed Hubert’s hair, digging his fingers in just a tad deeper and spreading Hubert’s cheeks slightly.

He stifled a chuckle by biting on his lips.

“What’s so funny?” Ferdinand could make out from the pillow beneath Hubert’s face.

“My dear, you have two perfectly symmetrical moles right _here_ ,” he emphasized with a gentle touch beside Hubert’s pink hole, “and _here_. I did not know it was possible to _have_ moles there!” Ferdinand was sure to place the tiniest kisses he could on each mole.

“Well neither did I,” a muffled Hubert answered, promptly covering the area with his hand. “I’ve never had anyone in that particular area for any purpose.”

Ah, so Hubert was new to this.

“Well, would you permit me to continue adoring you like this?”

“Only if you plan on fucking me _adequately_ for my tastes, Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand was slow in opening Hubert up, trying to take note of what kinds of thrusts he liked, noting that his back tensed involuntarily if there wasn’t enough lubricant, basking in the way he ground his hips when Ferdinand moved his fingers at separate intervals versus if he moved them in tandem.

“I want that dildo in you when you’re inside me,” Hubert commanded. Ferdinand gasped.

“How… How would that work?”

“Do I sense that Ferdinand von Aegir is stepping down from a challenge?”

Hubert was playing a dirty game, but Ferdinand wouldn’t back down. The prospect of the unthinkable pleasure from filling and being filled in turn was simply too great.

“I will always rise to the occasion!” Ferdinand smirked confidently.

He set to work spreading himself as well, focusing more on the teasing aspect of the stretch when it came to his own pleasure; of course, the majority of his attention still lie on Hubert, who was rolling onto Ferdinand’s slow fingers at a glacial pace, dragging his cock against the white sheets beneath him.

“I love you,” Ferdinand said softly against the shell of Hubert’s ear, earning a slight tremor from him. “How long I have wanted to be inside you,” he continued; Hubert was all gasping moans as Ferdinand withdrew his hand from himself and drizzled a healthy amount of cold lubricant directly onto Hubert’s entrance, using it to finger him deeper.

Ferdinand stopped preparing Hubert briefly in order to clamor for the dildo, still in the nightstand. He pushed it in slowly, relishing in the slight burn from being filled. Hubert, growing incredibly impatient, grabbed Ferdinand’s cock a little roughly and guided him to his entrance.

Hubert choked out an incredibly unpleasant sound as Ferdinand inserted himself.

“Darling, are you alright?” Ferdinand started to withdraw only for Hubert to reach behind to grab his ass.

“If I can’t handle it, I’ll let you know. You’re just— _flames_ —a size I am unaccustomed to.”

“Are you saying I am well-endowed?” Ferdinand asked sincerely.

“You dolt!” Hubert rolled his eyes as he made brief eye contact with him over his shoulder. “Are you seriously so daft that you don’t realize how large you are? If you can’t fuck me properly, I’ll bring someone in to demonstrate for you.”

Ferdinand pulled Hubert’s hips up slightly to gently fill him to the hilt.

He wanted nothing more in that moment than to see Hubert’s face as he slowly rocked into him back and forth. He sighed against the feeling of the dildo’s presence inside him. Hubert, however, kept trying to hide his face in the pillows. It was as if all of his confidence from their previous tryst had been washed away by a tidal wave of insecurity.

Ferdinand suddenly had an _excellent_ idea.

He withdrew from Hubert with a staccato series of kisses, trying his best to keep the dildo in as he waddled rather awkwardly to his wardrobe to open it; he had to ensure that the angle of the mirror would be perfect.

Ferdinand found his way to the bed again. He pried the taller man from the pillows, stroking his black hair back and repositioning him on the bed in front of the mirror. Hubert huffed and turned away, only for Ferdinand to capture his jaw in his slicked hand and stare back at him in the mirror.

“I want you to watch yourself,” Ferdinand whispered, slowly re-inserting himself with a gasp; as Hubert’s head lowered, Ferdinand tipped it back up.

“Is this torture truly necessary?” Hubert asked, his brows furrowed in some unreadable emotion to Ferdinand, his delightful flush staining his normally pristine skin.

“I think you will find this particular brand of what you deem _torture_ fulfilling,” Ferdinand emphasized with a light roll of his hips.

Ferdinand thrust into Hubert with great care. He relished in the indulgent, pleading noises escaping from Hubert’s clenched mouth and in the sight of that gorgeous cock swaying with his movements.

Hubert kept trying to turn away from facing himself. Ferdinand corrected him each time, holding his cheek for a brief moment. Hubert’s pupils were blown out when Ferdinand caught him staring into his own eyes in the mirror.

He smiled; Hubert’s moans reminded him of his singing voice, a little vibrato here and there as his voice changed octaves when his body accommodated Ferdinand’s cock. He almost had the mind to demand that Hubert sing while taking him like this, but instead wrapped a hand loosely against his throat to feel the vibrations there.

“You sound so sweet like this,” Ferdinand kissed the skin behind Hubert’s left ear and pulled back to laugh when he fluttered his eyes in a quiet gasp. Hubert grabbed Ferdinand’s hair and yanked him back to that same spot.

“Keep fucking me, Aegir,” Hubert grunted.

Between Hubert tightening around him rhythmically and the dildo’s weight against his own prostate, Ferdinand’s release was catching up to him all too soon. He could easily cum at _least_ twice more, but he was so afraid of disappointing Hubert by finishing this round before him.

Would Hubert think him weak for finishing so soon? Would he find the feeling of being filled repulsive and push Ferdinand away? Was Ferdinand a considerate enough lover? Was he inadequate?

“You’re close,” Hubert observed, letting out an impatient little pant.

“I am so sorry, darling, you just—you are so perfect for me.”

“Show me how perfect I am, then, you little slut.”

Hubert’s husky purr went straight to his cock. Ferdinand’s hips stuttered as he came inside Hubert with a long, strangled cry; his prostate was being thoroughly milked by the polished wood dildo deep inside him and even though he hadn’t technically stopped orgasming yet, he longed for another already.

He pulled out of Hubert leisurely and heard the man beneath him growl against the feeling of him retreating from the irresistible, slick heat.

Ferdinand quickly spread Hubert’s cheeks and he earned an incensed “What do you think you’re—?!” from him before his tongue lapped greedily at his own spend leaking from Hubert.

“ _Fuck_!” Hubert shuddered and bit into the mattress. Ferdinand moaned against that pliant hole of his. He continued pleasuring Hubert this way even after he was sure to swallow all of his load, darting his deft tongue in and out in a complicated sequence, never quite bringing Hubert to his own orgasm.

He wasn’t done toying with him yet.

“On the edge of the bed, darling,” Ferdinand directed him, and a fucked-out Hubert seemed more than willing to comply, his cock bobbing as he sat where Ferdinand said to.

Perhaps Ferdinand needed to fuck him more often like this, he giggled to himself.

Ferdinand crawled in his lap, whispering a stark “oh, _fuck!_ ” as he removed the dildo. He ensured that he had enough lubricant to slick along Hubert’s length to his liking and slid directly onto his cock; the maneuver forced Hubert to throw his head back, grab his thighs excruciatingly tight, and release a deep moan.

“You always made fun of me for riding horses,” Ferdinand exhaled through his nose and kissed Hubert’s chiseled cheekbones, “but I will ensure that you will appreciate my skills after this demonstration today.”

He winked down at Hubert, setting a punishing pace as he encircled his arms around the man for leverage as he rode him.

And while Hubert did frequently make fun of his affiliation for horses, in truth, Ferdinand frequently imagined Hubert riding a horse of his own beside him, the tall man all elegant long limbs and craning neck when he spoke to him, bathed in the sunlight he so readily avoided. Ferdinand wanted nothing more than to parade him around like a beautiful Hrym stallion he won at auction, bred for his intelligence and articulate movements and, above all else, his loyalty.

In a perfect world, Ferdinand _would_ gush about all these characteristics and more, _so_ much more, that Hubert clearly possessed and demonstrated with him. He would cause his classmates to roll their eyes from his incessant declarations of unyielding admiration, of devotion, of love.

But they lived in an imperfect world.

Ferdinand caught Hubert looking over his shoulder and into the mirror to stare at his own clever, magic-marred hands slapping Ferdinand’s ass as he continued riding him in earnest.

“Like— _ha!_ —what you see, darling?”

“The word “like” sounds scathing in comparison to how I feel about you,” Hubert articulated by biting some of the hickeys all along Ferdinand’s collarbone. Ferdinand had to bite his hand to stifle a scream.

Hubert always had to have the upper hand, _damn him_! But no matter, Ferdinand supposed. This precarious dance was meant for two, and no two dancers in the entire world understood this waltz quite like Hubert and him.

“I have seen the way you look at me in class lately,” Ferdinand began, panting slightly from the overwhelming pleasure and slight burning in his toned thighs. “I’m certain you dream of me hoisting you over that desk with ease and having my way with you, in front of everyone. Is that why you ignored me today? You would not be able to keep your hands to yourself?”

“ _Mmm!_ ” Hubert wordlessly exclaimed around one of Ferdinand’s hard nipples, lapping at it with his sharp teeth and tongue as eagerly as Ferdinand had his hole earlier.

“I-If everyone knew how readily the great and fearsome Hubert von Vestra took my cock today, they would know that you are the m-most perverted man in this monastery, possibly even all of Fódlan itself. Would you like that, darling? For everyone to— _Goddess, yes, just like that!—_ praise you? Let you know how handsome you are? How well you take it?”

Hubert bit hard into Ferdinand’s pectoral muscle to stifle his groan as he spilled inside him; Ferdinand moaned into the feeling of the slick warmth before his untouched member pulsed into nothing and spilled in kind.

Ferdinand basked in the afterglow, a little lightheaded, slick from lube, cum, sweat. He pressed his wet forehead to Hubert’s and touched their noses together.

After a few moments of saying nothing at all, Hubert let out a ragged, breathy laugh. “Do you not have a refractory period?” he finally asked, faux exasperation in his voice. “Never have I been with a man as _willing_ as you.”

Ferdinand’s stomach dropped. He supposed he should have guessed he wasn’t his first from the way Hubert touched him their first time, how experienced his mouth was, how controlled his thrusts were. But, against all odds, he hoped.

He was a fool.

“Darling, look at me,” Hubert whispered, dragging his thumb against Ferdinand’s cheek. Was he really that pathetic that his lover had to care for his irrationally wounded pride post-orgasm?

“You may not be the first, but you are by _far_ the best,” Hubert confessed with a light peck. “Don’t let it go to your head, though, lest I have to put you in your place.”

Ferdinand smiled with wide eyes.

After the two of them cleaned up, Hubert opened the window with a loud squeak, letting a crisp breeze through Ferdinand’s dorm.

“It smells suffocatingly like sex in this room,” Hubert complained, “no thanks to your copious emissions,” he groused under his breath.

For all his complaining, he tenderly cradled Ferdinand close and breathed in the scent of his hair when Ferdinand nestled against him on the bed.

They remained quiet for a long time, playing with each other’s hands and fingertips. Ferdinand nuzzled his cheek against Hubert’s chest, hearing his heartbeat for the first time.

Finally, Hubert spoke softly. “Being this close to you is like being too close to the sun. At times, I feel I’m nothing more than a shadow in your presence.”

Ferdinand’s heart swelled with lyricism: “The shade is just as important; what is a portrait without the contrast of light and dark? We all need respite from the sunlight, or else we would all burn.”

Ferdinand relished in the smile he earned from Hubert. It was very shy and small, but wholly earnest.

He would be sure to make him smile this exact smile for years to come, he told himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, aloe vera can actually help with bug bites AND hickeys, so should you find yourself in that precarious situation, it could help! There were lots of songs I wrote to for this chapter, namely RITCHRD’s “PARIS”, saib.’s “in your arms.” Melanie Faye’s “It’s a Moot Point”, and Glass Animal’s “Goey”. I love writing to music! Thank you all being so patient with me concerning my updates!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***PLEASE READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER***
> 
> Chapter 5 is rather heavy in comparison to what came before and will after for some time; if depictions of past instances (and one current instance) of abuse on behalf of Duke Aegir to Ferdinand makes you uncomfortable, I highly recommend skipping this chapter and going to chapter 6 (which will be focused primarily on fluff and friendships!) when that is released. There is also an instance of a safeword check failure, followed immediately by a correct use. The issue of conesnt is discussed thereafter. Yet again, if this feels like triggering content, I will NOT be offended if you skip. Please prioritize self-care above all else!

Ferdinand almost never allowed himself a leisurely weekend; how could he possibly hope to prove his worth to Edelgard and the others if he lounged around in silk nightshirts and didn’t keep up with his training or riding? But this Saturday morning, Ferdinand allowed himself to indulge, just this once.

He had woken with a start in the middle of the night, the sky outside still a brownish hue and the light from his open window painting the walls of his room a similarly dingy color. But soon, a nimble hand stroked his hair and he realized his head was digging into Hubert’s side.

“Go back to sleep,” Hubert whispered, punctuating his command with a chaste kiss to Ferdinand’s hair.

 _He must have decided to stay the night_ , Ferdinand sighed in contentment. The rising and falling of the other man’s chest lulled him back to a dreamless sleep.

When he awoke again, Hubert was reading one of Ferdinand’s texts on horse tack, singing some tricky melody under his breath as he turned the pages. His hair was an absolute, shaggy mess, black waves sticking out at odd angles here and there. His eyes were particularly bright as they scanned the diagrams and text, black fingers tracing along the immaculate ink on the textbook. Ferdinand briefly wondered what anyone else would think if they saw Hubert like this—gentle, naked, vulnerable.

“… Morning,” Ferdinand said, breaking the spell, his voice gruff and thick from sleep.

Hubert practically shot out of his skin like a startled cat. He launched the textbook towards the foot of the bed and directly hit his shin in the process.

“Ferdinand!” Hubert huffed, all narrowed eyes and deep frown.

Ferdinand couldn’t help but chuckle, kissing Hubert’s shoulder and clavicle in apology.

“You’re an utter nuisance,” he grumbled, yet brought Ferdinand’s lips to his, kissed along the light stubble forming along Ferdinand’s jaw. Predictably, the kisses grew more passionate, hands wandered to meet sensitive skin, and Ferdinand scrambled for the lubricant in the drawer before Hubert interrupted him with a curt, “Don’t bother.”

Ferdinand’s heart sank. Did he misjudge Hubert’s enthusiasm?

Hubert smirked, biting along Ferdinand’s sore neck, earning a yelp from the redhead. Thin fingers traced along his chest, tweaking nipples harshly in their wake. Just as Ferdinand was about to beg for mercy, Hubert suckled him gently, pinching the neglected nipple with equal gentleness.

Ferdinand was determined to regain some semblance of control, stroking Hubert’s length and his own in tandem.

“Your breath is awful,” Hubert groaned, sucking new marks in Ferdinand’s skin.

“And yet,” Ferdinand gasped under Hubert’s ardent attention, “you continue to make love to me each day.”

Hubert rolled his eyes until Ferdinand rubbed his thumb along the underside of his cock, causing him to bite his lip and suck in a short breath. Ferdinand decided to be particularly cruel, continuing the motion over and over for some time, half-expecting Hubert to scold him; instead, Hubert bit down on his neck particularly hard, yelling into the skin there as he bucked his hips and came all along Ferdinand’s abdomen.

Hubert shuddered from Ferdinand’s overstimulation. He pushed off of his chest, sunk down between his legs, and sucked Ferdinand’s cock like he needed it to live. All too soon, Ferdinand curled his toes after a particularly harsh swipe of Hubert’s tongue along his slit; he grabbed Hubert’s hair to hold him in place as he came in his warm mouth, moaning his name all the while.

Hubert kissed his head, shaft, balls, thighs, hips.

“What did I do to deserve such praise?” Ferdinand giggled as Hubert’s tongue tickled his side. (Of course Hubert would know the only somewhat-ticklish part on his body and assault it to torment him. Damn him!)

Hubert stopped his licking and looked up at Ferdinand, rosy-cheeked and with a shy smile on his lips. “Simple: you’re Ferdinand von Aegir,” he answered, cleaning Ferdinand’s stomach with his tongue.

Were he with anyone else, Ferdinand would have been embarrassed to admit Hubert brought him to orgasm twice more after that with his mouth alone, but under Hubert’s worship, Ferdinand could have cried. He never would have guessed someone would—even _could_ —indulge him so.

After Hubert had finally finished kissing him, he rubbed his eyes.

“Are you sleepy, darling?” Ferdinand asked, tracing his fingers along Hubert’s prominent cheekbones.

“Just sluggish; nothing a pot of coffee couldn’t fix,” Hubert replied. Ferdinand made a mental note that Hubert seemed to shiver under his touch, fluttered his eyes closed when he brushed along his cheek with the back of his knuckles.

Getting dressed was so much more difficult than it had any right to be—especially as Ferdinand caught a glimpse at Hubert’s ass as the man bent over rather ungracefully to retrieve his pants—but it was all worth it to share some tea with Hubert under the gazebo that morning. (Rather, Ferdinand drank his tea and Hubert nursed his cup of the Almyran coffee from Claude.)

The two were rather quiet, only punctuating the silence with mundane observations about the greenery, the birds, or the sky. It was still relatively early for a Saturday, though they did spot Hilda looking rather haggard, stumbling along the cobblestone path accompanied by Marianne who scolded her.

“I told you this would happen! I told you not to drink with them.”

Her gentle little voice was barely audible alongside Hilda’s rather loud proclamation of, “I didn’t get any penetration last night!”

Ferdinand gurgled on his tea as he laughed, choosing to spit up the drink in his porcelain cup rather than snort it out of his nose with a distinct, disgusting squelch.

“Ferdinand, noblest of nobles, spitting out his tea? I never thought I’d live to see the day,” Hubert reprimanded him in jest. His smile was still playful, if a little haughty.

They sat in silence, ruminating over their breakfast.

Hubert peered into the near-black liquid of his cup before inhaling the steam and sipping. “You have a healthy flush this morning,” Hubert finally commented, cocking a brow.

“Is that supposed to be a complement?” Ferdinand grinned, brushing a wavy bang off his forehead.

“I suppose it is,” Hubert shrugged as if to brush it off, then leaned in close enough to whisper, “it looks especially ravishing with your _necklace_ this morning.” Hubert adjusted Ferdinand’s collar and his gaze darted to the still-very-present love bites lingering on Ferdinand’s neck, new and old bleeding into a colorful mess. Hubert pulled away just as suddenly as he had slithered towards Ferdinand.

“I hope you realize the inconvenience you have caused,” Ferdinand chided. “I cannot train without my cravat on now, and Caspar will torment me about it endlessly, so thank you for that.”

He didn’t dare mention that his blush was from reflecting on his inward pride as he caught his reflection in the mirror earlier when they were dressing, admiring Hubert’s handiwork. It reminded him that he was wanted, that he was _loved_.

“You’re welcome,” Hubert sneered, taking a long sip on his particularly strong-smelling coffee.

“Do you always take it black?”

“Of course,” Hubert said, shielding his eyes from the strong rays of the morning sun. “I’m not a boy, I don’t need cream or sugar.”

Ferdinand heard Cyril’s shoes slapping against the cobblestone walkway before he saw him, huffing and puffing as he ran straight for him and Hubert, sniffling and pulling at his small satchel.

“Why aren’t you in your room like everyone else should be at this hour?” he continued huffing, rummaging around before pulling out an envelope with the Aegir seal on it in golden wax. “Next time, would you tell the postmaster to stop telling me your letters are “urgent”? You never seem to be in a huge hurry when you get them and I don’t get paid nearly enough to be _your_ personal servant,” Cyril muttered before shoving the envelope in Ferdinand’s hands and glaring at Hubert, sprinting away just as quickly as he’d arrived.

“Thank you, Cryil!” he cried out after him.

Ferdinand turned the envelope in his hands before breaking the seal with the spoon he used to dole out his sugar cube in his tea that morning.

Ferdinand supposed he should have expected the inconvenient letter from his father sooner; after all, it was rare for him to not receive at least two letters a week, usually handed to him by a miffed Cyril, always reminding him to do something innocuous; nonetheless, Ferdinand was always sure to keep his father up-to-date with the topics of his lectures, list his accomplishments for that week, and detail the efforts of his classmates on academic matters.

Ferdinand always spotted the same sentence near the bottom of every letter he received in return: “ _Please be sure to include only the relevant information in future correspondence_.”

However, this letter was different.

_2 nd of Wyvern Moon, 1180_

_Dearest Ferdinand,_

_I do hope this letter reaches you in time._

_You still have not yet told me which guest you have planned to accompany us to the Athelstan Company’s opening night of_ Barthelome and Drucilla _on 12 th of the month at the Koirgard Opera House. Our company must reflect well upon my position as Prime Minister; I thus urge you to write back a detailed account of their house, accomplishments, and an accurate judge on their allegiances and ideologies. _

_Please refrain from bringing Lorenz of House Gloucester again, as I am hoping to actually enjoy the performance without having to engage in another tedious conversation regarding that blasted rose garden._

_I expect you both to wear your finest attire; ladies must wear a gown that touches to the ankles or lower, and gentlemen must wear their cravats._

_I expect an answer no later than in a week’s time._

_Choose wisely._

His father didn’t even sign his name in his typical fashion of “ _Duke Ludwig von Aegir of House Aegir, First of His Name, Prime Minister of the Great Adrestian Empire_ ” and all his other, numerous titles.

A wave of cold sweat overcame him. The letter must have arrived much later than expected, as it was already the 11th.

He had already failed the first objective of this task thrust upon him by his father.

His recent courtship of Hubert entirely distracted him even _remembering_ the opening of _Barthelome and Drucilla_ , which he and Dorothea had been discussing endlessly the past month or so, Dorothea gushing about the new diva in the Athelstan Company named Sybille Dartmirth and her “captivating eyes”.

Perhaps he could invite Dorothea to the opening night? No, he thought; Dorothea comes from no great house. He would love nothing more than to take Bernadetta by the hand, lead her through the dark theater and gather her quiet thoughts on the performance at hand, but he didn’t dare subject her to the torture of enduring a crowd that large. Petra was out; he didn’t like to imagine what his father might say regarding her accent. Linhardt and Caspar of course weren’t an option for obvious reasons. Edelgard was in too high of a station for it to be considered, he feared.

Of course, in his heart of hearts, he would love nothing more than to invite Hubert along, however, he feared the guise of formality between the two of them may slip, that he might lean in too close, whisper along the shell of his ear and dart his tongue along it, squeeze his thigh tight to grab his attention.

Besides, his father and the Marquis never quite saw eye-to-eye, and the Vestra house wouldn’t impress his scrutinizing mind, he feared.

The temptation was too great, as was the chance for failure.

This, of course, left classmates of other houses on campus, most of whom he wasn’t particularly close with. Claude was already occupied tomorrow; Ferdinand had asked him a week ago if he wanted to go on a ride with him that day, to which Claude shrugged and said, “Can’t, I’ll be occupied. Sorry, Ferdie, maybe next time!” Annette could be a good choice, though Ferdinand admittedly only knew her in passing. He wondered if Dedue would have enjoyed a night at the opera with him, though he solemnly remembered there was the presence of his father to consider. He didn’t dare subject Dedue to that.

Inspiration suddenly struck— _Sylvain_! Ferdinand knew few people who could navigate a conversation as effortlessly as him, who knew the proper etiquette, who loved the theater as much.

“Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?” Hubert snatched the letter out of Ferdinand’s hand, bringing it rather close to his face and squinting his eyes.

“Do you need glasses?” Ferdinand smirked, bringing his letter away from Hubert’s face.

“That’s absurd,” Hubert scoffed. “I can see perfectly fine.”

“Hmmm, I see,” Ferdinand hummed cheekily, holding the letter just far enough away to see Hubert’s eyes narrow once more. “What does it say, then?”

“I’m not playing this game with you, von Aegir,” Hubert bristled, to which Ferdinand sighed and allowed him to re-read the paper again much too close to his face.

He couldn’t deny that he bit his lip when he imagined Hubert pushing up thin gold frames on his long, thin nose, the contours of his eyes contrasting with the reflective glass. Perhaps they could even make a game of it; he could convince Hubert to dress in his most formal attire (something black or gray, Ferdinand imagined, as it was doubtful he would ever be so lucky as to see the man dressed in a dark blue or green), allow Ferdinand the pleasure of pretending _he_ were his professor instead, make him beg for a higher grade as he had just _happened_ to fail his class examination that day, and “ _please, Professor von Vestra, isn’t there anything I could help you with_?”—

Hubert’s voice snapped him out of his inappropriate daydream.

“And who, dare I ask, are you thinking of subjecting to your father’s indiscriminate cruelty?”

“Sylvain,” answered Ferdinand.

Hubert _tsk_ ed under his breath.

“No doubt your father will think you’ve taken a paramour,” Hubert chuckled.

Ferdinand smirked, quietly retorting with a, “Well, he would not be wrong in the grand scheme of things, would he?”

Hubert flushed.

* * *

Much to Ferdinand’s delight, Sylvain was absolutely _thrilled_ at the prospect to see _Barthelome and Drucilla_ , and the two had agreed to meet at Ferdinand’s room to depart.

There was just one problem, however.

Well, technically speaking, there were _several_ very angry-looking problems all lining Ferdinand’s neck and, because the Goddess was a cruel mistress, Ferdinand’s last clean cravat was used to clean up he and Hubert’s mess the night prior.

When Ferdinand opened his door to let Sylvain in, he was greeted with an astounding sight. It wasn’t that Ferdinand had found Sylvain _unattractive_ before—he rather admired his smile, his gentle eyes, and anyone could gush over Sylvain’s broad chest and strong arms—but he suddenly realized how _handsome_ he was.

“I know, I know. I look kind of ridiculous,” Sylvain scratched the back of his hair, which he appeared to put a little pomade through to tame his cowlicks and flips, to (fashionably) little avail. His maroon jacket and breeches contrasted tastefully with a teal vest, adorned with beautifully embroidered gold, red, and navy-blue roses, a small matching sapphire in the middle of his ivory cravat.

Ferdinand kept one hand pressed firmly to his neck. “You look… _amazing_!” Ferdinand exclaimed, relishing in the grin he earned from Sylvain, his smile lines deep and nose slightly crinkled.

“I fear I may make us late, however,” Ferdinand gulped, ushering Sylvain in.

“What’s wrong?” he asked when he was finally inside.

“You have to promise me you will not admonish me,” Ferdinand dared not look directly at Sylvain, instead examining himself in the mirror. He hoped his chosen attire for the evening would suit his father’s sensibilities. It was a suit that Ferdinand had purchased with some leftover birthday money, a cornflower blue coat and breeches with a rather plain periwinkle vest, though if one were to examine the coat closely, small powder blue doves adorned the collar and cuffs.

Of course, one key aspect of his attire was missing.

“Why are you covering your neck?” Sylvain asked, genuine concern bleeding into his voice. “Did you nick yourself while shaving?”

“No, I was able to shave closely enough, but…” Ferdinand closed his eyes and removed his hand.

Sylvain audibly gasped, then whistled. “Damn, Ferdie, that’s pretty bad,” he chuckled. “I trust that you’ve been up to _something_.”

“Please, Sylvain, if you tell—”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sylvain lifted his hands. “But this is a major problem, and I only know one person here who can help you, and luckily for you, they owe me a favor. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure no one except the three of us have to deal with this. Do you trust me?”

Ferdinand nodded meekly.

“Alright, then hold on,” Sylvain pumped his fists and ran out the door, only to return a short while later with a guest in tow.

“Just because I owe you a favor, Syl, doesn’t mean I’ll go _through_ with whatever this is! I’m not helping that fuddy-duddy boy!”

Ferdinand clasped his hand over his neck again out of instinct and was face-to-face with Dorothea, who Sylvain pulled into the room. He promptly slammed the door behind them while she continued complaining. She carried a rather large canvas bag with her and smirked at Ferdinand.

“You don’t need the makeup, Ferdie, your undereyes look fine! Your nose is looking a little red, but maybe that’s because my beauty flusters you,” she beamed, batting her eyelashes all the while.

“Makeup?” Ferdinand squeaked, his eyes darting between Dorothea and Sylvain.

“Well, I figured it was better than nothing!” Sylvain shrugged. “I have good ideas sometimes!”

Ferdinand’s fingers trembled and his eyes widened. He couldn’t let Dorothea see—surely she’d tell the entire school, he would never hear the end of it, he _most certainly_ would get in trouble for engaging in sexual behavior on school grounds (he could clearly imagine Seteth’s unavoidable rage and Manuela’s piercing giggle), a formal letter would be sent to his father of his termination as a student at the academy, who would surely disown him in turn, possibly even worse.

“Please, Dorothea, I beg of you,” Ferdinand’s voice was barely audible over his thumping heartbeat swelling in his eardrums, “you cannot tell _anyone_ about this.”

“About you wearing makeup?”

“About why I _need_ to wear it.”

Dorothea rolled her eyes. “Nobody _needs_ makeup, Ferdie, it’s meant for fun, for performance, maybe even sometimes to impress potential partners of mine with my steady hand and artistic skills.”

Ferdinand still held his hand on his neck, and shook his head.

“Just show her your neck,” Sylvain sighed.

Dorothea’s eyes practically bulged out of her head. “Come on, Mr. I’m-so-noble, show me the damage,” Dorothea gesticulated with her hands.

Ferdinand extended his neck to show her the extent of it.

“Holy _fucking shit_!” Dorothea laughed, doubling over and clutching her stomach, snorting and pointing at the obvious marks. “You’ve been a pretty bad boy lately, I take it! This changes _everything_ ,” she continued to snort, but managed to motion Ferdinand to his desk chair as she hefted the canvas bag towards him, removing various jars and unscrewing their caps.

Ferdinand tried to blink away the promise of tears forming at the corner of his eyes, tensing his hands on his kneecaps. He forced himself to look away from Dorothea.

“I knew she was a freak, but even _this_ is a little extreme,” she muttered, warming up various skin-toned products on the back of her hand.

“She?” Ferdinand’s eyes widened.

“I wish you’d told me you and Bernie were up to something, I would’ve given you the proper talk on _where_ to place the hickeys. There’s an art to it, right, Syl?”

Sylvain nodded, stretching his arms across his chest lazily.

“Dorothea,” Ferdinand sighed, “I cannot let you tarnish Bernadetta’s good name like this. She is too… innocent to have done this, I think,” he confessed. “At least I would certainly hope so,” he added under his breath.

“Oh?” Dorothea raised her brows and fixing her pink lips in a small “o”; she took a small paintbrush of sorts and dabbed the rather yellow-looking mixture from her hand onto Ferdinand’s neck. He could tell she was actually taking great care not to mar his suit with the foundation. “Who would’ve been this _aggressive_ with you?” she asked, her voice theatrically coy.

Ferdinand gulped against the paintbrush. “I cannot say their name,” he said.

Dorothea winked. “I know it was Hubie, silly. No one else would have any patience for you. I was just hoping you’d say his _name_ is all.”

“You devil!” Ferdinand blushed.

“So… when did all _this_ start happening?” she waggled her brow, and Ferdinand covered his face in his hand.

“Hey, Dorothea, I don’t think he’s ready to talk about it yet,” Sylvain quirked his mouth and furrowed his brow, as if searching for the right words to say. “I think he’s pretty new to this whole arena.”

Ferdinand mouthed ‘ _Thank you_ ’ when he lifted his hand from his face. Sylvain mouthed, ‘ _No problem’_ and winked back.

“Ugh, fine, but I demand a full story after you’re all done at the opera tonight!” Dorothea whined.

Ferdinand never considered himself particularly well-versed in the expressions of women, but when he looked into Dorothea’s eyes, he saw a hint of sorrow lurking in those sparkling, lagoon eyes.

“I wish it did not have to be like this,” he said. “I know my words are of little comfort, but my father insisted I bring a noble guest. Had I had it my way, I certainly would have brought you.”

He knew he couldn’t go back in time, convince his father that Dorothea _deserved_ to meet the woman whose voice she sang praises about; he could easily envision her grabbing this songstress’s hands, cupping them in her own delicately as if she were holding a fine jewel, and surely her enthusiasm would bleed into her wonderful voice as she gasped in reverence.

Still, Dorothea smiled. “That says a lot. That you thought of me, I mean,” she said, grabbing some kind of powder and swirling a rather fluffy brush through it before knocking off any excess powder against the back of her hand. The bristles tickled and irritated Ferdinand’s neck, though he knew to be still.

“ _Ta-daaaa~_!” she clapped her hands, urging Ferdinand to look at himself in the wardrobe mirror. His neck was a little yellow-toned, to be sure, but it was rather similar to the color he tanned to in the summer months.

“Dorothea, I cannot thank you enough,” Ferdinand whispered.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, but I expect payment in the form of _explicit details_ on your little rendezvous!” She waved him off.

“Oh _shit_ ,” Sylvain held his silver pocket watch in his hand, clasping it closed. “Let’s run,” he said.

He and Ferdinand rushed out the door, though Ferdinand found it difficult to keep up with Sylvain due to the little heel on his dress shoes; through sheer luck, the two of them managed to reach the gates just as the deep burgundy carriage drew near, drawn by two rather large, proud-looking geldings whose coats caught the afternoon sun in their fine chestnut hairs.

Of course his father would have picked two of the largest horses from their stables, Ferdinand noted, though he didn’t recognize these particular ones. Even with blinders on, he could distinguish individual horses apart.

“Ah, good afternoon young sirs!” the gatekeeper smiled, straightening his stance and tightening the grip on his lance. “It appears that the Prime Minster has arrived five minutes ahead of schedule, but you were all timely enough to have made it. Please, allow me to raise the gates!”

Ferdinand should have expected the glower he received from his father, but he certainly didn’t expect the false smile plastered to his face as Sylvain bowed with the grace of a swan, smoothly uttering, “A pleasure to finally meet the well-accomplished Prime Minister of Adrestia; your son has told me much about your policies and political prowess. I am Sylvain Jose Gautier, of House Gautier, future Margrave and bearer of the house Crest.”

The fake smile bled into a real one at the prospect of Sylvain bearing a Crest and being a Faerghan noble ripe for allyship.

Perhaps, for once in his life, Ferdinand _did_ choose well.

After being ushered into the ostentatious and plush carriage, Ferdinand’s father turned his attention to him once again.

“You have forgotten your cravat, though I explicitly detailed as much in my letter to you. My letter, which you so negligently ignored.”

“Father,” Ferdinand answered, “a servant boy handed the letter to me yesterday. I did not have the proper amount of time to prepare.”

“A von Aegir does not make excuses,” Ferdinand’s father uttered just loud enough for him to hear, but just quietly enough that Sylvain wouldn’t as he entered the carriage.

Ferdinand’s father decidedly ignored him the rest of the ride into town to the opera house, discussing various political matters, poetry, and theater productions the two had seen in the past. Sylvain, in his own right, was a masterful tactician, keeping the conversation focused mostly on his Prime Minister father, addressing controversial topics with ease and finding perfectly-crafted outs for Ferdinand’s father to blab endlessly about _his_ opinions, _his_ policies, _his_ preferences.

Sylvain was also much more well-read than even Ferdinand had realized, able to recite poetry line-for-line with ease, no “ _um_ ”s and “ _ah_ ”s like Ferdinand stumbled upon as a young child (for which his father would smack his knuckles as he sat in the study, urging him to perform better next time as a fellow nobleman would admonish him in private for his shortcomings).

Ferdinand caught an uncomfortable lump forming in his throat.

He was becoming _jealous_ of Sylvain.

He realized with a jolt that was lost in thought far longer than he initially expected as the three exited the carriage at the entrance of the Koirgard Opera House. It was a modest house, to be sure, but elegantly adorned in copper statues of half-dressed women that gleamed without the slightest hint of patina, the house itself painted in a muted shade of mauve with sage green detailing climbing up the walls to the slate gray roof.

“We shall be seated in a private booth,” Duke Aegir said coolly, keeping an eye trained on Ferdinand.

The private booth was easily the smallest Ferdinand had ever sat in in his 18 years, and immediately upon choosing his seat in between his father and Sylvain, his velvet chair squeaked so loudly that he could see spectators from the opposite end of the hall scowl at him.

“This is going to be a long show,” Sylvain giggled quietly, “so I recommend getting comfortable.”

Ferdinand nodded, his eyes going wide as the lights dimmed and the orchestra began. There was always the moment of anticipation when a show began, when his heart beat so loudly he could practically feel the blood filter through the chambers of his heart. It was something akin to falling in love, he used to tell himself; but he now realized, truly, that falling in love felt more like the first time he rode a pegasus, all shivers and smiles and unbridled laughter.

A violin somewhere in the orchestra pit was a touch too sharp, the sound of shrieking strings almost drowning out the entrance of (what Ferdinand assumed to be) the hero approaching the stage.

The man on stage wore even more makeup than Ferdinand felt like was slathered on his neck in that moment, just a touch too orange, with wild, blotchy red cheeks and lips. His strawberry blonde hair was worn perfectly and unnaturally coiffed. The costume armor he wore glinted painfully against the lights pointed to the stage, and Ferdinand’s father grumbled while bringing his hand before his eyes to shield the glare.

The man’s voice warbled in a way that reminded Ferdinand of the annoying mockingbird that cried loudly for a mate all summer long in the tree in front of his window, waking him up at 4:30AM sharp every morning. Of course, it seemed back then that it was a race between the mockingbird and his painful erection from some inappropriate dream concerning Hubert that woke him up each morning. He covered his mouth in a silent laugh as he recounted an angry, sleep-deprived Leonie shouting in the stables at Marianne, “ _It’s like the Goddess-damned bird is screaming “_ fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!” _at the top of its lungs!_ ” and her screams of agony as she tried to shoot it down each night in vain.

“What’s so funny?” Sylvain whispered, tickling the shell of his ear and earning a shudder from Ferdinand.

“Well… do you remember that mockingbird Leonie kept trying to kill during the summer quarter?” Ferdinand whispered in turn.

“ _Cichol’s balls_ , you slay me, Ferdie!” Sylvain shook in near-silent laughter, wheezing slightly and earning a glare from Ferdinand’s father, as if he needed the reminder that he would surely be chastised later for his conduct.

From what Ferdinand was able to gather, Barthelome was dubbed “Barthelome the Great” for his efforts in a war with a neighboring kingdom, where he was able to seize control of an especially well-defended fort. He was in love with the beautiful court mage Drucilla, though she was of a higher station than him as the advisor to the king.

The scene transitioned very clumsily, as some stage-hands collided with one another while moving large set pieces rigged on noisy wheels that desperately needed to be oiled.

The next scene opened on a rather striking woman, all pale skin and high cheeks, her thin lips lined in a dark plum lipstick and her piercing yellow eyes lined with kohl as dark as her hair. She wore an outfit that Ferdinand could vaguely recall a gremory mage had worn in his presence as a boy, a woman who ruffled his hair and cooed _“Well aren’t you just the cutest little spitfire?”_ ; she’d made him smile so wide his cheeks hurt, to which his father grimaced and reminded him that a nobleman was never to wear his emotions so openly for a woman to see.

However, while traditional gremory uniforms allowed casters freedom of movement, combined with only the faintest allure of skin, he wondered how exactly this particular dress was staying in place; the actress’s breasts were as prominent as her cheekbones, the poorly-crafted chiffon of the gown clinging quite awkwardly in places. Ferdinand could tell the woman was well-figured, but the fit of the dress was so poor that it didn’t do her any justice.

Thankfully, this performer seemed much more experienced than Barthelome; as suspected, this was the diva that Dorothea gushed about, her voice trilling effortlessly in a husky tenor, warm and sensual; she was no Professor Manuela, Ferdinand assured himself, but she was certainly unique in her own right.

“Maybe this show’s not as bad as I initially thought,” Sylvain’s voice tickled his ear once more.

“You only say that because of her beauty,” Ferdinand answered.

“No, she can actually sing. Plus, her breasts are pretty magnificent,” Sylvain replied.

Hearing the words “breasts” and “magnificent” strung together like that became the funniest thing imaginable to Ferdinand in that moment, who bit his lip so hard to stifle a boyish giggle that he felt his teeth dig into his flesh.

His father narrowed his eyes at once, causing Ferdinand’s heart to palpitate once more, his lips trembling under the pressure to stop smiling.

The play continued, Barthelome crying in his rather booming, annoying voice, “Hark! What beauty lies before me? ‘Tis but Drucilla, the most versed and lovely mage in the kingdom! Drucilla, my sweetest love, the fire blazing in my fervent heart, I daren’t go where we cannot be free together. To ride on the wings of a wyvern is less freeing than basking in your glory!”

Drucilla brought a dark gloved hand to her pale face and rolled her eyes. “Ah, if it isn’t Barthelome, the most oafish man the kingdom of Tilseaus could employ. You are the reason I requested all cavalrymen under the king’s command wear their helms to battle. Alas, it seems a pegasus knight set his sights for you quite early in your military career, rendering you a dunce.”

The audience erupted into laughter, along with Sylvain.

Ferdinand and his father remained silent.

“You wound me with your harsh words, my dearest Drucilla! Hast the pursuit of Reason not taught you the virtue of patience when dealing with the heart of another? I wondered about the pursuit very much in my youth, but all would pale in comparison to you in the art.”

“Poor Barthelome, the only way to pursue reason is to have a brain, which, may I so graciously remind you, you appear to lack. Indeed, you may be the only living creature wandering this forsaken world with nothing but hot air and pegasus feathers from your previously-mentioned accident occupying the space between your ears.”

The character’s exchanges continued like this, each of Drucilla’s bitter soliloquys on the topic of Barthelome’s stupidity and carelessness and foolishness earning raucous laughter from the audience. Even Sylvain covered his mouth as he laughed along.

“What is ever so funny, Sylvain?” Ferdinand asked as he leaned over.

“Oh, Saints, this is supposed to be a tragedy, but I think it’s actually a comedy and some writer got astronomically confused along the way. Who finds this dynamic romantic? Barthelome is an absolute idiot, and Drucilla is an unfeeling, sardonic ice queen; they’ve got nothing to offer each other. Maybe I misspoke—it _is_ a tragedy, but only for the character of Barthelome!”

Ferdinand watched, near-emotionless, as the play continued. Somewhere along the way, the character of the King Leander of Tilseaus, portrayed by a rather rotund man with a significant slur to his speech and ruddy flush, poisoned Drucilla with a love potion so that she may fall in love with him, as he would summon her to his chambers and be the first man she laid eyes on.

However, through a series of shenanigans, Drucilla had seen Barthelome before King Leander and had fallen in love with him instead.

Far too many lackluster performances from the characters of Rune (a pageboy played by a rather lanky actress who sung far too quietly) and some unknown character (Ferdinand couldn’t hear the young man’s lines at all, much less the character’s name, as the actor stuttered and kept his face down the entire performance) interrupted the pacing of the play.

There was a rather uncomfortable scene between a bar wench named Esme and a patron named Wendell that stretched on for an unnecessarily long period of time, earning boos and groans from fellow attendees. During that segment, Ferdinand kept wriggling in his seat to prevent his foot from falling asleep.

It didn’t escape him how his father’s meaty hand clasped the seat’s armrest beside him. He exhaled deeply, but retained his gaze on the actors and actresses below. The harshness of the out-of-tune orchestra grew louder and louder in Ferdinand’s throbbing head, and his stomach churned.

Thankfully, after what seemed like an eternity, they were hurtling toward the opera’s conclusion. Barthelome, without fail, continued his ardent declarations of love, which Drucilla entertained for a moment before biting back with a sharp retort.

“Drucilla, the keeper of my heart, of beauty unrivaled through time and space, the sweetest little raven in all of Tilseaus—let us be wed by the break of day tomorrow, for I wish nothing more than to see your pale frame graced by the daunting light of day!” Barthelome’s voice cracked as he sang and Ferdinand winced.

He supposed the line wasn’t meant to be funny, but the audience grew so deafeningly loud that Ferdinand couldn’t hear Drucilla’s response to Barthelome’s final confession.

He turned to Sylvain with wide eyes only to find his face red, his mouth open in a silent howl, and wiping tears from his eyes.

“Oh, _Goddess_ , Ferdie! Who calls their love their ‘little raven’?! What an ugly expression! Thank you for taking me to this— _truly—_ because this has to be both the best _and_ worst opera I’ve ever attended in my entire life!”

If Ferdinand could deny any similarities between the dynamic of Barthelome and Drucilla before, he certainly couldn’t now. Sylvain had even said the expression was hideous, unbecoming of a loved one to call the object of their affection such.

Ferdinand was a fool.

The magic tied to the love potion wore off in that exact moment, and the pained expression the songstress that played Drucilla wore mimicked Ferdinand’s own.

The only difference between the two was that Ferdinand certainly wasn’t acting.

“Oh Barthelome, I fear there has been some misunderstanding between us. What I feel—more accurately, a feeling that has since passed—could only have been described by even the most reverent of poets as lust. We bear nothing to tie us together, for you are but a reeking idiot, full of hot air and damning noise. I have chosen to wed King Leander in your stead. This is our last goodbye, my fair-weather love.”

Drucilla tried to exit the stage, tripping over her poorly crafted dress and ripping the bodice clean in two as if it were cleaved by Edelgard’s sharp axe; thankfully, the actress appeared to wear undergarments, but Ferdinand had to cover his ears from the chaotic noises that erupted from the fellow opera-goers and winced as the actor of Barthelome managed to somehow actually hurt himself with the stage prop sword his character had slain himself with.

The audience cheered as the actor clutched his stomach and waddled off stage, yelling for a healer.

Ferdinand could only muster the energy to blink back tears as he, his father, and Sylvain entered the carriage again, seemingly incapable of anything else.

He remained silent the entire trip back.

Sylvain and his father discussed the merits of the Athelstan company, Duke Aegir swearing vehemently that he would cease all further donations for their efforts. Sylvain still continued to laugh as he recounted all the blundered scenes, but Ferdinand noticed his genuine pout when he glanced at him.

It was as if Ferdinand was temporarily somewhere else, fuzzy and unrefined and indeterminable, when he was suddenly jolted back into his body as the carriage lurched to a halt; he collided rather unceremoniously into his father’s lap.

Ferdinand scrambled back up to his seat and Sylvain climbed over him, bidding his father a fond, effortless farewell, to which his father smiled in response. The expression reminded Ferdinand of the same, small, perfect porcelain smiles painted on Edelgard’s dolls from their youth; she would let him brush their hair, explain to him the meaning behind all their names, but while the memory tied to the dolls was sweet to Ferdinand’s (apparently) simple mind, the dolls always looked so pained, somehow amiss.

“Stay here, boy,” his father muttered for Ferdinand’s ears only, shutting the door behind Sylvain.

“If I had known you two were going to whisper and giggle the whole time like two little schoolgirls at a sorcerers’ academy, I would have demanded you bring that common songstress wench instead; perhaps she would be able to teach you proper etiquette for attending the theater.”

“Her name is _Dorothea_ and she is not a _wench_ ,” Ferdinand felt his staunch control over his manners slipping ever-so-slightly. “She is a proper girl, a very talented songstress and mage,” he continued, “and I am lucky to study alongside her as a classmate and friend in the Black Eagles House.”

“Friend?” his father chuckled breathily. “Ferdinand, you are far too sentimental and simple.”

“Have you ever liked my friends?” Ferdinand asked weakly; he feared he already knew the answer, but he couldn’t bear the metaphorical weight of the yoke of disappointment any longer.

For once, just _once_ , he wanted to be praised, wanted to be told he chose _right_.

“You’ve never had friends. You have allies. I entrust that you realize as much.”

“But what about Edelgard and Hubert?” he hardly recognized his voice anymore, his usual tenor absent, his dejection clear. He had to assume the mask, while he still could.

His father laughed in his face. “Edelgard would be a fine candidate for marriage, if only to ensure that you’ll bear children with a worthwhile Crest, but the girl is too haughty and smart for you; a man of your station should never befriend a woman like that, as she will control the rest of your life. And that von Vestra eel is a _disgrace_ to the Empire, he and his repulsive father.”

“They’re my friends!” Ferdinand insisted.

“Would you shut your trap and _listen to me_ instead of talking for once in your life? You’ve been nothing but insufferably loud from the moment you crawled out of your mother’s quim!”

Ferdinand clenched his jaw. “How _dare_ you! How dare you talk about my mother like that?!”

The mask had completely fallen.

“Elaina was my _wife_ and I lost her too soon because she expended all her remaining energy doting on you, you pathetic boy! You merely lost a mother; I lost a soulmate!” Duke Aegir narrowed his eyes, mere inches from Ferdinand’s nose.

Ferdinand couldn’t contain the angry chuckle that frothed at the corners of his mouth. “She was your _soulmate_ and you repaid her by fathering bastards?”

All the years of his father shouting about how incompetent and dim-witted he was, “poking fun” at his baby fat and reprimanding him when he cried because of it, the unending admonishments during his etiquette lessons for the slightest infractions—it all culminated into the abrasive words that danced upon Ferdinand’s tongue.

Perhaps he was channeling Hubert like a ventriloquist.

The loud crack of leather on skin reverberated in Ferdinand’s ear before the unbearable sting graced his left cheek.

He cradled it out of instinct. Silent, white hot tears leaked from his eyes.

“Get out. When you realize what you have done, you will repent.”

Ferdinand dared stare directly into his father’s eyes. He remained unmoved, uncharacteristically stoic. A single bead of sweat forming along his forehead crawled down to his neck; it was the only sign of exertion on Duke Aegir’s visage.

Ferdinand carefully exited the carriage, facing his father once on the ground.

“I expect your apology within a week’s time,” he scowled, leaning over to slam the door shut, screaming at the coachman to “leave at once”.

With the crack of a whip, the carriage rattled away.

Ferdinand tensed his entire body, clenched his fists until his fingernails dug into his palms, leaving white crescents in their wake.

“Ferdie, are you alright?”

A gentle voice spurned him to whip around. Sylvain apparently waited for Ferdinand this whole time, probably out of obligation. Obligation: that’s all anyone ever felt for him, he convinced himself in that moment. His own father, his long-dead mother, his so-called “friends”, his classmates—even Hubert.

Sylvain hesitated. He reached out a fraction before stopping when Ferdinand raised his hand in protest.

“I don’t need your pity, Sylvain!” Ferdinand choked out, cursing himself for being so weak, so stupid, so useless.

“That wasn’t what I was going to—”

Ferdinand wasn’t in the mood to entertain anyone, much less the impeccable, smart, capable, handsome, perfectly composed _Sylvain_. His own father probably loved him more than Ferdinand in this moment, possibly more than he ever loved him.

He walked away, actively ignoring Sylvain’s cries of “Ferdie? Ferdinand… _Ferdinand!_ ”

He kept his face down as he entered the gates, praying in vain that no one would recognize him, would see him wipe the tears of self-pity off his cheeks; his cheek still ached from the slap, but he didn’t really care anymore.

He needed—no, _deserved_ —to be punished for his shortcomings, and he knew just the man for the job.

* * *

Hubert squinted at the missive in the early evening light; Edelgard would surely mock him for his adamance about not needing reading glasses, but they were a true liability for his work. Surely he could train his eyes to sharpen their focus when it came to small, cyphered code. A true spymaster didn’t have physical weaknesses so petty.

He barely heard the faint sound of paper sweeping against the floor, but he froze at his desk at the noise. His eyes instinctively glanced towards his dorm room door only to find a neatly folded slip of crisp white square. He wasn’t surprised to unfold it only to be visually assaulted by Ferdinand’s immaculate and frivolous handwriting.

_Come see me at once. I have a surprise for you._

_\- Ferdinand von Aegir_

Hubert wouldn’t admit it out loud, but his heart soared. He carefully tucked away the missive, reset all his little traps to tell if someone had snuck into his dorm in his absence, and locked his door.

Perhaps Ferdinand brought some treat from the market while he was in town with his repulsive bastard of a father and the insatiable Gautier harlot; he would certainly never get lucky enough for coffee, he imagined, but he wouldn’t reject something like a box of dark chocolate truffles fed to him by Ferdinand’s reverent hands.

He smoothed out his uniform rather carelessly and slinked into Ferdinand’s room, closing the door quickly behind him, latching it upon instinct.

“I trust that you received my note,” Ferdinand hummed.

Hubert practically melted into a puddle once he saw Ferdinand kneeling on the plush carpet of his bedroom floor donned in what Hubert could only rightfully call a parody of lingerie.

A whisper of black lace stockings strained against Ferdinand’s thighs, clutching for dear life to the fastens of the matching garter belt that cinched in just above his hips. The underwear—if one could even _call_ them that—did little to conceal anything at all, Ferdinand’s neatly-trimmed hair a beautiful visual contrast to the soft lace detailing. The brazier’s underwire seemed to dig into his chest uncomfortably tight, Ferdinand’s pink areolas peeking out from the dark lace, utterly inviting and indescribably scandalous; Hubert was suddenly seized by the desire to rip it off, watch his chest bounce under the sudden promise of the garment’s release.

“I swear these fit better when I first bought them,” Ferdinand grumbled to himself, preening himself like a bird as he adjusted straps and fastens and wriggled things about.

“I rather like how they fit now,” Hubert’s voice cracked slightly.

Why was he so nervous? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen Ferdinand as naked as the day he came into this world, hadn’t fucked him to completion several times now, hadn’t stroked himself furiously to this very imagined scenario for countless weeks. But seeing Ferdinand, the actual Ferdinand, dressing up for him like this, was different, _better_. He was indulging Hubert in a previously-unspoken and very keen interest of his.

Damn that Ferdinand von Aegir, that little vixen! Hubert would be sure to reward his efforts.

Ferdinand batted his eyelashes sheepishly. “I expect you to break me properly tonight. Ruin me for any other lover.”

Hubert didn’t need to be told twice. He sat on Ferdinand’s bed, turning to the nightstand to see the lube (he made a mental note to find a merchant that sold a much larger vial than the one Ferdinand currently owned, as they were going through it rather quickly) and the same pair of black leather gloves Hubert had discovered all those days ago.

“Would you wear those for me?” Ferdinand winked.

“Certainly, Pet,” Hubert sneered, making a show of peeling off his current white cotton pair teasingly slow, taking note of how Ferdinand’s breath hitched, how his warm amber eyes glossed over with longing as he watched Hubert’s long fingers stretch the leather, how he bit his lips when they curled until the leather creaked.

“And your word?"

“Chamomile, as always, my darling,” Ferdinand cooed.

He was saccharine tonight, laying it on a little thick, Hubert noted.

“Esspresso,” Hubert gave a curt nod of his head. “Come here,” he curled his finger towards him and patted his knee.

Ferdinand stretched into his lap like a cat, nestling his face in the juncture where Hubert’s hip met his thigh, his ass on full display.

“Who are you tonight?” Hubert asked, daring to rub Ferdinand’s cheeks with his gloved hand. The flesh was plush under the insulation of the glove, and Hubert delighted in the drag of his skin as it clung to the leather a bit.

“Why, I am Ferdinand von Aegir,” Ferdinand answered with all the confidence in the world.

That was the wrong answer.

Hubert reprimanded him with a harsh smack to his ass. Ferdinand whined and panted against the sensation; he caught the bright scarlet of Ferdinand’s flush bleeding to the high points of his cheeks. Hubert was nothing if not brutal, so he had been told many times, and graced the angry mark forming upon the globe of Ferdinand’s ass with his gloved hand once more, barely touching him. Ferdinand shivered.

“Should you forget to count, or count the incorrect amount,” Hubert warned, “we start from the beginning once more. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” Ferdinand nodded against Hubert’s leg. “One. Thank you, Sir.”

“Good boy,” Hubert trailed his fingers up to Ferdinand’s lower back, very decidedly ignoring the task at hand if only to see how long the impatient man in his lap could go without squirming and begging for more.

Hubert needn’t wait long at all.

“If you have stopped on my accord, I assure you that I can handle—”

Hubert interrupted him with two resolute smacks, delighting in the way Ferdinand’s breath hitched, the way his body tensed and unfurled.

“That was for speaking out of turn,” Hubert said plainly. “I trust that you won’t do it aga—”

“You did not clearly establish that rule when we began.”

Ferdinand looked over his shoulder and poked his tongue out at Hubert. What a little _tease_.

Hubert inhaled through his thin nostrils, spanking Ferdinand three times in quick succession, allowing no cool-down for his wonderful, overwhelming, _maddening_ lover. Ferdinand bit back a scream.

“What number are we at now, Pet?”

Hubert ghosted his fingers against the agitated skin. Ferdinand keened, and Hubert’s heart positively fluttered. Perhaps he was not sentimental outright, but he, like most men, had his secret pleasures; the image of Ferdinand squirming beneath his reverent touch, his harsh reprimands, the undeniable erection digging into Hubert’s still-clothed thigh would be filed away into the darkest depths of his heart until his dying breath.

Ferdinand’s breath still spluttered out of his lungs. Hubert tucked a finger under one of the sinful stockings, pulling it just far enough away from the skin to earn a quiet _snap_ as it returned to Ferdinand’s thigh.

“I’m waiting.”

“Six, Sir,” Ferdinand huffed. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Very good,” Hubert praised him in earnest, leaning over to kiss his back, relishing in the little twitch his affection earned. “You still haven’t answered my question. Who are you?”

“I have already told you, I am Ferdinand von Aegir,” Ferdinand said.

“Incorrect.”

Hubert couldn’t hold back a moan at the strangled cry that erupted from Ferdinand as he smacked him once again, four times in quick succession, so deeply that Hubert’s own hand was beginning to sting even through the leather.

Ferdinand groaned, even when nothing came in contact with his reddening ass. Instead, Hubert played with the black lace garter belt; it was expertly crafted, he had to admit. The little intricate black lilies sewn to the tantalizing lace surely would tickled his fingers were they bare. Little moles and freckles dotted Ferdinand’s skin even here, though more sporadically than on his shoulders and chest.

“You seem to have difficulty processing this,” Hubert teased. “Do you know what number we’re at, darling?”

Ferdinand didn’t answer until he caught his breath. “F-Four,” he said.

“That was ten total, though I did strike you four times just now. You begged to be broken, so I will keep my promise; we start again, wipe the slate clean. Though you _will_ thank me each time properly, lest we have to start again.”

Ferdinand shuddered.

“Do I make myself clear, Pet?” Hubert annunciated clearly, kneading Ferdinand’s cheeks gently as if to apologize for his previous roughness.

Ferdinand nodded.

“I need your words.” _I need to know you trust me_ , Hubert thought, a quiet anxiety licking at the back of his mind.

“Yes, Sir! Please, break me! I want to think of only you, have you inside me, forget everything outside of you and your lips! I want to make you happy! Please!” Ferdinand looked a Hubert with glassy eyes, a feverish blush framing his soft features.

Hubert leaned down and captured Ferdinand’s lips in a dominating kiss.

Hubert vowed to follow through, though he was sure to spank Ferdinand slower, more thoroughly, make him beg prettily like that again. He varied his strikes; sometimes they were louder than they were thuddy, other times he could feel Ferdinand’s muscles tense and shift beneath his remorseless torment.

“Who are you?” Hubert was sure to ask each time, though the answer had shortened from _Ferdinand von Aegir_ to _Ferdinand_.

Ferdinand wailed and stuttered his hips each time before choking out the correct number alongside the beautiful words “thank you, Sir!” Occasionally, Ferdinand caught Hubert’s gaze upon him and smiled wide, his eyes crinkling as he licked his lips.

“That isn’t the answer I’m looking for, and you know it,” Hubert finally growled. Hubert absolutely sneered down at the headstrong redhead wriggling in his lap, relished in his hazy delight as he brought him to the precipice of pleasure from just pain alone.

After a particular series of quick smacks, Hubert asked his question one last time.

“I…” Ferdinand swayed his head as he tried to maintain eye contact with Hubert with some difficulty. “I am your Pet. A cocksleeve, a toy to be used of and discarded as you please.”

“Ferdinand,” Hubert began, unsure of how to answer to the last portion of that sentence; his heart palpitated in uneasiness.

Ferdinand slinked out of Hubert’s lap and onto the bed, spreading his thighs wide before him, his cock straining only slightly against the black panties. His chest, still barely covered in the rather ill-fitting brazier, rose and fell rapidly. Silent tears fell freely from Ferdinand’s eyes.

While Hubert thought the sight was wholly erotic, Ferdinand’s words twisted in his gut like a sharp knife in the hands of a capable assassin.

“I want… I want to be what _you_ want. Not myself. I am worthless. Use me, choke me, slap me, fuck me, I care only for your enjoyment. I am a means to an end. Please, make me forget.”

“Ferdinand…” Hubert asked softly, arousal fleeing his body just as quickly as it had seized him earlier. “What’s your safeword?”

Ferdinand clutched his stomach as he laughed; the sound coming from him was completely foreign to Hubert, however. It wasn’t his usual pearly laughter, or his giggle that reminded him of a soft windchime against a lazy summer breeze, or the peal of laughter that would erupt from him when Caspar would tickle him mercilessly after a lost mock-duel.

This vile imitation of a laugh was completely pained.

“Sir, a whore like me doesn’t need one.”

“Espresso!” Hubert choked out, shaking his head. He attempted to regain composure, to repress the tightness threatening to enclose his throat.

Ferdinand’s usually dazzling gaze was completely unfocused. He seemed unable to fully comprehend Hubert’s plea. Instead, he brought a finger to his plush lips and made a show of his little kitten licks against the digit, slowly plunging it in his mouth.

“ _Espresso!_ ” Hubert proclaimed, much more loudly this time. “I’m ending this.”

Ferdinand removed the finger from his mouth, though his eyes still bore that same distant quality to them.

Hubert gathered the soft gold-tasseled blanket that Ferdinand sometimes draped over the foot of his bed and, with the gentlest of touches he could muster, swaddled Ferdinand in it like a newborn babe. Hubert sidled alongside him on the bed, taking the foggy young man in his arms.

Ferdinand looked up at him as if he were some ethereal creature from one of his beloved bedtime stories he had read to Hubert their first night together. He was still clearly swimming in the foggy depths of his mind.

“Come back to me when you are able to,” Hubert whispered.

Ferdinand furrowed his well-groomed brows and blinked heavily before closing his eyes and smiling deeply. He nuzzled his head against Hubert’s chest, eventually erupting in a garbled combination of giggling and sighing. The fading light of the sun caught the wetness of his cheeks just so, tugging at Hubert’s heartstrings.

Hubert stroked his hair tenderly, his own hands shaky as he was coming down from the encounter as well.

How long had Ferdinand felt like this, he wondered? Felt this need to be, in his own words, “broken”?

Ferdinand grew quiet, his breath faltering and slowly erupting into a silent, tremoring sob. His whole body seemed wracked with some unspeakable sorrow, and Hubert held him tight against him.

His heart rattled inside his chest until he remembered a particular thought that Ferdinand inscribed in his diary: Ferdinand liked— _loved_ —his singing voice, something he was normally quite self-conscious of.

He hummed a careless, uncomplicated tune against Ferdinand’s temple that he sometimes heard Linhardt whistle as he tied his hair back; the action did little to soothe him.

Hubert had only seen Ferdinand cry like this twice before.

The first instance was at Lady Aegir’s funeral.

_Duke Aegir openly wept, possibly for the first time in his whole life. His hideous face was graciously shielded by his grotesquely large hands and he shook like a bough in a storm._

_Ferdinand was so little then, a fact that Hubert delighted in tormenting him with each time they met; Ferdinand always puffed out in a way that reminded him of a slimy, stout toad backed into a corner, screeching defenselessly at its predator. “I will grow, just you wait!” he would say without fail each time._

_But Ferdinand’s smallness disturbed him when he watched his hands grasp at Duke Aegir’s arm for comfort, fat gobs of tears streaking down his flushed cheeks, only to be swatted away like a bothersome horsefly._

_Perhaps it was the first time he felt a twinge of kinship with Ferdinand; he wanted nothing more in that moment than to scream at the Duke and grab Ferdinand’s hand, tell him that it was more than acceptable to miss his mother, especially at such a tender age._

_Of course, he remained beside his father, unmoving and placid as a lake in winter._

_He pretended to not notice the promise of a sadistic smile tickling his father’s pale lips. His Marquis father warned him to not marry “a sentimental, idiot woman who cares only for frivolities”; a woman like that—like Lady Aegir—wasn’t fit for him, not the kind of work Hubert was destined for._

_Hubert supposed he wasn’t unlike his father in his repulsion toward Ferdinand back then. The foolish child wanted nothing more than to spend his days playing pretend, riding reeking horses in the Aegir’s pastures, proclaiming his superiority to anything that had two braincells to rub against one another._

If only he had realized then what he knew now, he mused as he still hummed the nonchalant melody. How he adored Ferdinand’s romanticism, his honesty, his devotion, his mind. He of course couldn’t have foreseen Ferdinand’s beauty under the brashness of his boyishness then, but he intended to more than recompense for lost time now.

Ferdinand’s shuddering breath briefly pulled him out of his thoughts once more, but reminded Hubert of the uncomfortable, lingering memory of Ferdinand crying like this the second time; the second instance was due solely to Hubert’s callousness.

 _Lady Aegir had passed not even six months prior, and it was the first time since that Ferdinand had actually wanted to play with him and Edelgard. They had seen him since the funeral, of course, but Hubert noticed he seemed even more easily distracted than before, flitting about like a nervous sparrow. He could barely string together a sentence without darting his eyes around; his laugh at Edelgard’s quips was always canned, rehearsed. It made Hubert angry; in his childish indignation, he assumed Ferdinand did so in an effort to belittle Edelgard._

_They all awaited their fathers’ return from a very lengthy and dreadfully boring meeting on grain production (it seemed boring to even a young Hubert, who often dreamt of sitting beside a much taller Edelgard at that daunting table and dutifully etching every word of deliberation for proper documentation)._

_Edelgard rolled her eyes as Ferdinand proclaimed with renewed vigor that he would play the part of the emperor in their little game of make-believe._

_“My Lady insists on being the emperor in this campaign,” Hubert stated. “We shall play by her rules.”_

_“Edelgard, you would be an empress, not an emperor,” Ferdinand raised a finger to correct her._

_“No.” Edelgard stood tall (well, as tall as was possible for her thin, leggy, short frame). “As Emperor Edelgard, my first proclamation would be to choose my own title!” she smiled._

_“But… but that is not grammatically correct!”_

_“We should do as the Lady decrees and play the game she wants, von Aegir,” Hubert quirked his mouth._

_Ferdinand crossed his arms, “We never play the games you want to play either, Hubert.”_

_Hubert scrunched up his nose, despite Edelgard’s slight tugging at his sleeve._

_“I’m perfectly content serving Edelgard. Unlike you, I understand my station. It’s wisdom that comes with age; maybe by the time you’re an adult, you’ll understand. Or, more likely, you’ll still be stupid even when you’re an adult.”_

_“That is not fair!” Ferdinand bristled under his scrutiny. He pouted, dramatic and excessive in everything he did, even then._

_His chubby cheeks were rather pale compared to the sun-drenched boy Hubert has always known. If Hubert had cared enough for him back then, he would have insisted he was sickly, that he needed to rest._

_Instead, Hubert jeered at the young boy. “Nothing in life is fair, Ferdinand; if it was, your mother would surely be alive right now, wouldn’t she?”_

_Hubert could only describe Ferdinand’s face as emotionless, as if some strange creature had merely adopted the visage of the infernal boy. After a moment that lasted far too long, Ferdinand’s knees wobbled. He brought his hands to his face._

_“I… I don’t want to be your friend anymore, Hubert!” he gulped out before covering his trembling mouth once more. He sprinted down the plush carpet halls, the little heels of his unreasonable dress shoes thumping against the fabric like the thundering hooves of a galloping horse in a field._

_Hubert snickered at Ferdinand’s pain. After all, he deserved it for attempting to undermine Edelgard, a girl superior to him in every aspect under the sun. Only a little hissing sound escaped until his breath caught in his throat; Edelgard shook her head, her lilac eyes bore an unforeseen emotion: anger._

_Anger directed towards_ him _._

_“Hubert,” she gritted out, “that was unnecessarily cruel.”_

_“He deserved it,” Hubert stated plainly, trying to regain his composure._

_Edelgard’s face fell. “No child deserves to lose their mother. Especially not like that. He watched her waste away into nothing. Besides, she was always kind to you.”_

_Hubert furrowed his brow in thought, crossing his gangly arms across his twiggish frame. Edelgard, as always, was correct; Lady Aegir always smiled at Hubert, but not in the crude kind of mockery he had seen on any other noblewoman. Now that he thought about it, she was the only adult who asked Hubert what he was interested in with genuine curiosity; he must have muttered something about alchemy once, which spurned a long lecture on the prudence every horticulturist must hold in their heart of hearts to ensure the best quality potions and vulneraries to heal those who needed it most. Hubert didn’t correct her to state that his actual interest was in maiming traitors with his concoctions, but her impassioned spirit touched him, nonetheless._

_“Go seek him out and apologize sincerely,” Edelgard’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I’ll be waiting.”_

_As always, Hubert did what was commanded of him. After searching many of the rooms, he found little Ferdinand cowering under a bedside table in the guest quarters reserved for traveling diplomats, choking on silent tears._

_Hubert knelt down to meet his wide, frightened eyes._

_“I must apologize,” Hubert grumbled. He knew he didn’t mean it, not truthfully, but he would repent to his Lady properly._

_Ferdinand continued to cry soundlessly, finally confessing, “I miss my Mama."_

_Hubert frowned. “I know,” he answered plainly._

_“And I will never get her back.”_

_“I know.”_

_An awkward silence now lay between the two boys. Hubert had said the truth, after all, but he did wonder if he said the right thing in the right way._

_“Come,” he said, motioning Ferdinand from out underneath the table._

_Ferdinand shook his head._

_“Hubert?” he murmured. “Are you my friend?”_

_“Lady Edelgard cares for you very much,” Hubert made absolutely sure his voice was as quiet as Ferdinand’s in that moment. This, too, was the truth._

_“But are_ you _my friend?” Ferdinand quavered._

_Hubert loathed to admit it, but his throat tightened._

_“Perhaps I could be,” he whispered._

_Ferdinand’s smile returned, fresh tears wetting his soft eyelashes. He reached out to Hubert’s hand and emerged from underneath the table._

“Darling?” Hubert croaked, feeling that same contraction in his throat as he did in his youth as he wiped Ferdinand’s tears away.

“I feared I was a fool, but now I know. I know where I stand. I was right to doubt myself,” Ferdinand began. “Sylvain is effortless with my father; he is able to navigate the most difficult conversations, flatter even the most puritanical man in all of Fódlan. And I? I am a nuisance, a sop, a disappointment of astronomical proportions.”

“And that is why you demanded this tonight,” Hubert surmised. “All because of some implicit slight?”

“I am not clever enough, accomplished enough, _worthy_ enough. My darling Hubert. I fear… I fear I only have one thing to offer you, and that is relief. I only want what makes you happy, for I fear I’ll lose you otherwise; you’re so cunning, so talented, you give me so much, surely another man of better quality could—”

“No! Stop this!”

Hubert’s own exclamation startled even himself as he cupped Ferdinand’s jaw; Ferdinand bit his reddened lips and darted his eyes away, only daring to glance at Hubert again briefly. Hubert readjusted his grip gently, but Ferdinand’s exaugurated wince didn’t escape his discernible eye as his still-gloved thumb graced Ferdinand’s now slightly swollen, blotchy cheek.

Fury bled into Hubert’s heart, clutched his body tight; he had to make a great effort to quell the Reason licking at the bones in his fingertips, stifling the righteous emotion as best as a man of Hubert’s weak constitution could in this moment.

“He struck you.” Hubert’s voice betrayed his inward efforts to regain self-control.

“It was my fault,” Ferdinand whispered. “I am infuriating, and I overstepped my boundaries. I deserved it.”

“My love,” Hubert choked. “No social misstep you could have possibly committed would warrant that. The next time I see that fucking bastard, it’ll be your last.”

“Darling, please don’t say such things…”

“I meant what I said. Simply killing him would be too kind a release for what he put you through. I will make him _pay_. Mark my words.”

They were quiet for some time after Hubert’s acidic vibrato. Ferdinand was a deer frozen under the threat of being pierced by the arrow of Hubert’s words again.

Finally, Hubert spoke in an effort to alleviate the tension, to probe at the dark, unfathomable thing occupying the space between them.

“You are brilliant, sometimes vexingly so. I would have rather slit my own throat than admit that up until this recent turn of events,” Hubert said.

Ferdinand shook his head. “I am not sure I believe you.”

“Must you make me to profess _everything_?”

Ferdinand nodded weakly.

“Never have I seen such a persuasive orator before. Do you remember when Leonie was convinced that she knew what was ailing Marianne’s horse when you and I were saddled with mucking the stalls for stable duty?”

“She thought Dorte’s stomach was upset from his feed,” Ferdinand responded, his voice still uncharacteristically meek.

“And you, Ferdinand, knew better. You were clever enough to have deduced that his hooves were actually shrinking from his transition to Garreg Mach from the more coastal climate of Edmund, and you treated him accordingly; you made Marianne _smile_ for once in her seemingly miserable life. You made Leonie readily admit to her oversight. Had you asked my own opinion on the matter, I would have readily accused the infuriatingly delicate beast of being difficult on purpose.”

“I was right in one instance,” Ferdinand said. “That does not prove that I am clever.”

“Goddess be damned, Ferdinand, you’re right about a great many things, and surely that means _something_ to you! Yes, you are frighteningly stubborn. You have the propensity to overindulge in your self-righteousness. You overwhelm anyone within your immediately vicinity. You rush with your heart first in a great many cases,” Hubert said. “But my reverence for you is far beyond your looks, your body, though I cannot deny my attraction in that regard as well. You challenge me, force me to examine my methods, ensure I’m making the wisest decision. You always care for those who need it; I hate to admit it, but I envy you, at times.”

“You… envy me?” Ferdinand looked up at him incredulously.

“You are so… expressive. As we’ve grown older, you’ve refined your ability to toe the line of honesty and flattery. For example, Bernadetta sequestered herself for so long, and while I worried she skipped meals and hyperventilated in her room while we sat in lectures, I made no great effort to seek her out. Who has been the most outwardly vocal about her artistic pursuits while still offering constructive criticism? Who brought her the majority of her meals she didn’t eat directly at our table with us these past few months?”

“I did,” Ferdinand stared at Hubert and sighed.

“And who managed to find one of the sole surviving copies of some ancient, obscure Brigid play in the original dialect for Petra in an effort to—and I quote your _deafeningly loud_ proclamation word-for-word—“ensure that she never relinquish her love for the arts”?”

“I did.”

“And who held me tenderly as I sobbed for the first time since boyhood? Who read to me, cradled me against him, called me his, made the sweetest love imaginable to me?”

“Most certainly me; were it not, I fear what I may do to this other man,” Ferdinand sniveled, shaking from a breathless chuckle.

“As I have told you before, my little stallion, I am no poet. What I may lack in frivolity in that sense, I will rectify by confessing this once more: I love you. I love you, Ferdinand. I love _you_ , all of you. You draw everyone to you like a moth to a flame. You’re undeniably strong, supportive, but observant.”

Ferdinand smiled slightly, and Hubert kissed the corner of his mouth.

He continued. “I implemented the safe word to ensure your trust. I need your honesty in this and despite what you may have thought before tonight, being outright cruel to you gives me no longer gives me the deep, unfathomable satisfaction it used to.”

“I was honest,” Ferdinand insisted. “To say I enjoyed your hands on me would be an understatement; I had imagined this exact scenario since nearly the start of the academic year!” he blushed, pulling the gloves from Hubert’s hands, kissing his now naked skin.

“Perhaps I feared disappointing you,” he finally admitted.

“Ensure that, in the future, you _will_ say it,” Hubert plead.

Ferdinand squeezed Hubert’s hands. “I promise, with all my might, but only if you do the same.”

“I promise,” Hubert kissed the tips of Ferdinand’s thick, slightly calloused fingers.

“I am a man of my word,” Ferdinand proclaimed, reaching up and tickling Hubert’s nose.

Hubert scrunched up his face in anticipation for a sneeze that never came, earning a bellyaching laugh from Ferdinand. Ferdinand’s laugh was so violent that the straining fabric of the black lace bra Ferdinand had donned for their session that night snapped loudly; this, of course, did nothing to quell his contagious laughter and Hubert joined in.

“Let’s get you out of this ridiculous outfit,” Hubert kissed his wavy strawberry locks.

“ _Ridiculous_?!” Ferdinand scoffed. “Do you realize how much I paid for this? How many months I had to—discretely, may I add—procure all this under the guise that it was for some make-believe woman I courted, all under the wistful hope that you may be the one to see me like this?”

Hubert blushed at his sincerity. “However much you paid, I will pay you back ten-fold in the lingerie _I’ll_ commission especially for you, though unlike you, I will be sure to take the proper measurements.”

“You are utterly intolerable,” Ferdinand poked his tongue out and winked.

Perhaps this would work out after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote to SO MANY songs for this chapter! Some include ”Jupiter”, “Gomenasai”, and “Bank Head” by Kelela, “Genuine” by Shagabond, “Somebody Else” by The 1975, and many many more! I know I say this every time, but this monstrosity should be the biggest chunk by far for a while. Please check for updated tags coming up in the future as well! 
> 
> If you want to talk to me, find me on twitter at: https://twitter.com/boringgreen1


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I am really pleased to be posting again; things in my personal life had been preventing me from doing so until now, and I hope you all like this latest installment!
> 
> As a content warning for this chapter, there’s an instance of subspace, subdrop, aftercare, and a breif recollection of an intsance of physical abuse as a child. If any of these subjects distrub you, I will not be offended if you skip!

_Hubert curled around himself in a sprawling bed he didn’t recognize, surrounded by scarlet sheets. He fumbled around for Ferdinand, but his comforting warmth was nowhere to be found._

_“I kept you waiting, didn’t I?” a woman’s voice whispered, seemingly all too distant and too close to his ears all at once. “I didn’t intend to be gone so long, but I had to tend to something.”_

_“What?” Hubert’s own voice sounded groggy to him. He scrambled for any of his knives; there were none. He then realized he was naked, in a strange bed, in a room that was a sickly shade of honey-yellow. It almost reminded him of Edelgard’s bedroom but everything was wrong, the windows in incorrect positions, the panes of glass crawling with vines, Edelgard’s porcelain dolls faceless._

_A sudden chill wracked his body when a pale figure crawled from the foot of the bed, all long white hair and strong shoulders and full breasts. Hubert averted his gaze._

_“Where is Ferdinand?” he spat out, trying to conjure magic that wouldn’t come._

_“My dearest, Ferdinand has been dead for years. Why won’t you look at me?”_

_Hubert finally met the gaze of the… thing. It looked like Edelgard, to be sure, but he just knew it wasn’t. It seemed much older, more weathered, talking lines forming at the corners of its small mouth._

_Its small hands clutched his throat and it plopped down in his lap._

_“You’re not—not her!” he wheezed, the ice-cold hands tightening their vice grip around his throat. It wasn’t a technique designed to kill, however, as the thing’s hands were applying pressure to the blood vessels trailing the sides of his throat rather than the larynx itself._

_It was a secret thrill of Hubert’s, one he never indulged to anyone, not even Ferdinand._

_Where was Ferdinand?_

_“I thought you’d prefer this form,” it hummed in thought, lining Hubert up and sinking down painfully fast. “I thought by giving you the opportunity to be fucked by the very thing you couldn’t protect, it might give you some closure before the end. It seems I miscalculated,” it surmised._

_Hubert could barely hear it over the pressure forming in the back of his head from the constriction, the liquid flushing of strained blood pulsing through his ears._

_“S-Stop!” Hubert gagged._

_The thing had the audacity to laugh at him, an utter sickening parody of Edelgard’s. It still rocked its hips at a grueling pace. Hubert clawed at its thighs in an attempt to push it off. This only seemed to egg the creature on._

_“You could have protected her, but you were weak!” it screeched. “You failed!”_

_Hubert’s vision was darkening, burning in the corners like embers kissing holes in parchment. It was as if his whole body burned suddenly as he fell down, down, down._

He opened his eyes and gasped, clutching his throat.

“Hubert!” a soft voice called out for him and large, warm hands wrapped around his shivering frame.

He jerked his head to the side only to be greeted by a worried Ferdinand.

“It was only a dream,” he reassured Hubert, coaxing him to lay on his chest. The light dusting of hair there tickled Hubert’s nose, but he didn’t mind in that moment. “I have you now. I will always protect you.”

“You cannot possibly,” Hubert whispered. He still had difficulty finding his voice in the dark.

“I will make it so,” Ferdinand kissed his hair before threading his fingers in it in the same manner he had when Hubert worked himself into a panic when this whole affair began. It was illogical to let a nightmare affect him like this, he knew. And yet, he couldn’t help the trembling in his willowy limbs attached to his pathetically slender frame or the warble in his voice as he called out for Ferdinand again.

“I am here, darling. I will always be here,” Ferdinand said after a soothing “ _shh-shh-shh_ ” tickled the roots of his hair.

“Tell me a story again,” Hubert plead.

“It is too late to light a candle, my little raven,” Ferdinand replied, equally as quiet. “Would recounting a story from memory be alright with you?”

Hubert nodded. He was sure Ferdinand could feel the thrum of his erratic heartbeat as they lay skin to skin like this, but he wondered if Ferdinand would be able to detect the hint of magic lingering in his veins.

“I am afraid I am too groggy to remember a tale from my mother’s book, but would you like to hear a funny story about Lorenz and me from when we were boys? I’m afraid it may be rather embarrassing, but it may make you laugh,” Ferdinand offered, leaving sweet little kisses along Hubert’s long nose.

“So as long as it’s short,” Hubert replied.

Truth be told, Hubert barely paid attention to what Ferdinand was saying. He instead fixated on the softness of Ferdinand’s voice, the consistent thumping of his heart beneath his cheek, and he absentmindedly dragged his finger across Ferdinand’s chest to trace complicated shapes.

He did exhale from his nose and smile when Ferdinand had finally gotten to the good part: a much-younger Ferdinand had gotten too ambitious for his own good (as he was prone to do) and climbed up so high in a tree on the Gloucester estate that Count Gloucester himself had to pluck him from a limb. Of course, Duke Aegir was furious, but Lorenz and his father apparently still joked about Ferdinand crying and hanging from his suspenders.

“You have a penchant for story-telling,” Hubert said.

“You really think so?” Ferdinand asked.

Hubert hummed in acknowledgement. He slipped out of Ferdinand’s grasp in order to stretch his limbs. Several joints in his legs and back popped in quick succession and groaned loudly. Ferdinand grimaced in response.

“That is a most unnatural noise,” Ferdinand remarked, but he pulled Hubert flush to his back anyways and tucked his arm under his own. “We should get some rest, while we still can,” Ferdinand murmured, seemingly already in the process of falling back asleep.

Hubert stilled, waiting for all the telltale signs that Ferdinand had slipped back into whatever nameless dream he’d had before Hubert startled him earlier. When his breathing finally slowed, he managed to crawl over his sleeping frame.

The last few times Hubert had snuck out in the early morning, Ferdinand clamored for him in his dreams, groaning in the same tenor he had when he’d received that dreadful scar beneath his ribs. Hubert hated to admit it, but it made him weak; he’d shove some pillows into the spot he’d occupied seconds earlier, strategically placed to sate Ferdinand’s desire to hold him, and each time Ferdinand sloppily kissed the pillowcase and fallen back asleep with little resistance.

He hadn’t waited long enough tonight, though: Ferdinand stirred just as Hubert had slipped his shirt back on.

“Stay with me, darling,” Ferdinand plead, his quiet voice laced with some emotion Hubert couldn’t quite pin down.

“We don’t want to raise too much suspicion,” Hubert explained.

That may have partially been true—he doubted Ferdinand wanted to disclose the true nature of what this had spiraled into to the entire monastery (despite how loud he was during, well, _everything_ ). Most likely, he would lose his birthright or, worse, what scrap of his father’s approval he still clung to in his childish devotion.

Hubert had no such concerns. But he couldn’t risk Ferdinand understanding the true nature for his departure.

Ferdinand turned over to face the wall, nestling and cocooning himself in his pillows and blanket. “Then I will see you in our lecture later. But please, come back tonight, and stay. I will make it more than worth your while.”

“I’ll see to it that I do,” Hubert reluctantly walked to the bed to caress Ferdinand’s cheek, his dark hand gracing Ferdinand’s skin, now tinged blue from the remnants of moonlight pouring through the open window.

“Promise me that you’ll sleep when you return to your room?” Ferdinand sighed.

“I promise,” Hubert lied. He dragged his knuckles along the younger man’s temple as a kiss goodbye.

Hubert, of course, did not go back to bed before class that morning.

Instead, he compiled the notes he’d taken on several classmates—their usual haunts, habits, routines, weaknesses and strengths (in terms of both mental constitution and physical). Dorothea’s pages were notably sparse compared to some others; she was rather unpredictable, flitting in and out of others’ rooms at odd hours, occasionally skipping class with little rhyme or reason. Dedue’s, too, were lacking, though his schedule was entirely predictable; there were few adjectives he could think of to describe him other than “stoic” and “dry” and “grounded”.

But he now had several things to add to Ferdinand’s numerous, _extensive_ entries. Hubert couldn’t help but smirk at some of his notes, some of them several months old at this point, inscribed in a special ink activated only by the aid of magic.

_Subject F.v.A.:_

_Blithering idiot; favorite topics include (but are by no means limited to): nobility, honor, the opera, strains of tea (what constitutes a perfect brew vs. a “scalded” batch. Investigate this—any poisons that can mimic this taste in order to blame on inadequate brewing temperature/time?), horses/animals in general, weaponry, antiques, armor, art (notably paintings; seems partial to landscapes and paintings focused on commoners, cares little for still lifes, intrigued by sketches?) Knows several classic works of poetry, folklore; extensive knowledge of history. Is able to recount things from memory ~~extraordinarily~~ well (advantageous skill?) Gentle with easily provoked animals/persons, but difficulty holding own with superior persons; overcompensation rampant, pestering P.B.E. constantly for private lessons to increase prowess in various tasks (pointless!) No exhibited physical fears as of yet (i.e. phobias, aversions), though seeks approval constantly (fear of rejection?)_

_Seems to avoid meals heavy in cheese (originally surmised dairy intolerance, though this is incorrect: seen several instances of subject taking tea with D.M. + S.J.G. where a splash of cream/milk is used [ ~~normally does not like this though?~~ Perhaps politeness, unknown etiquette in another region?], heavily favors creams in dessert dishes, etc.) Unlikely to eat cheese in general, waste of poison. Tea still quite viable; liquids work fastest, but taste is hard to mask at times. Tends not to doctor tea if it is “good”. (Every cup offered has been abysmal, though poured before eyes into both own and subjects cups directly from pot, so I have been lucky thus far.)_

_Easy to provoke or lure into some impassioned speech. Enjoys hearing himself speak and fancies himself a romantic. Antediluvian views on several matters. ~~Unfortunately and undeniably beautiful~~ Gifted in manners of animal husbandry, ~~impressive~~ adequate build, could be of use if H.M. desires a meat shield to bolster defense. Subject has grown approximately 2.25 inches between summer and when academic year began; may continue to grow? Gained ~~prominent~~ slight muscle and some width; hard to determine how much. Height vs. muscle index may be advantageous on the field. Indisputably great cavalryman. Competent with a lance, but surprising knack for Faith. Seems to enjoy patching up others after missions and mock-battles, though delegated only to minor scrapes and bruises and the like; keeps dressings pristine. Again, competent at this ~~though not surprising when impeccable personal hyenine is taken into account~~. (Could do without lectures on how to care for wounds, especially when not subject’s area of expertise [common occurrence for subject; irritating nonetheless])_

_~~Charming~~ _ _~~Handsome~~ Potentially duplicitous motives; on surface seems different than father (probe deeper here; may be for show?) Ever a defender of the defenseless. Takes to gifts well; typically gives gifts first: once subject offered a bead found on ground ~~on a walk together, claimed he thought it “pretty”~~. Stupid, trivial, useless gift but kept for inspection. Subject is predictably fond of teas given to him by others, but takes to useful gifts well. Have given subject a whetstone once, and now makes a show of using it in front of me. ~~Appears cognizant in matters concerning valuing others, others’ emotions,~~ Is an emotional creature by nature._

_Tends to stare directly into eyes of speaker when spoken to; wrings wrist (typically left) when nervous/under scrutiny. Taken recent liking to asking inconsequential questions on own preferences (coffee is frequent topic now; asks about Reason, hobbies, ideals, favorites of several different categories. Sudden interest in gloves, though subtle enough another may not notice (???). May suspect corruption due to Reason/lack of Crest? Investigate.) Subject exhibits unique body language, though still relatively predictable. Puffs out chest in indignation; frowns in empathy if someone exhibits negative emotions; prone to holding another’s hands while encouraging their efforts if they have failed in a particular endeavor; bites bottom lip and tucks hair behind ear (typically right) if complemented heavily (usually accompanied by flush on cheeks) or unsure how idea/comment/etc. will be received. ~~Have not tested the complementing theory on own, yet.~~_

_Predictable schedule. L.H.G. likely suspect if otherwise cannot be found; the two take lunch each Friday afternoon for usually 1.5-2.15 hours, though spend time together frequently in addition to regular visits. Spends much time training, riding, at the cathedral, or tending to horses at the stable._

_Subtle shift in alliances (???); now spends time with D.A., C.v.B., D.M., S.J.G., C.v.R., M.v.E. (never all together; that is reserved only for D.M., S.J.G. + C.v.R. on unpredictable frequency). Only seems to interact with L.v.H. willingly if he is with C.v.B. (frequently found together, as to be expected; pair covered more extensively in pages 122--127). D.A. still belittles him with only slightly less frequency, but the two have many things in common (a love for theatrics, ~~musically skilled~~ a love for music, etc.)_

_Subject M.v.E. is potential love interest; she blushes when he draws near, looks at her, so much as breathes within 10 feet of her general direction. Makes up at least one excuse per week to have him look at her ~~wretched~~ horse. Subjects L.P. and H.V.G. tease M.v.E. after F.v.A. leaves stables and M.v.E. stutters and huffs and giggles; H.V.G claims frequently after this display that the two would have a whole litter of “horse-obsessed” offspring. ~~Disgustingly accurate observation~~. Careful: should subject fall completely for M.v.E.’s charms, would likely change allegiances. Fortunately, subject F.v.A. appears completely and woefully oblivious to M.v.E.’s affections. _

_~~Would take to submission and heavy praise well; perhaps prefers opposite? Could benefit from degradation and strict control. Surprisingly flexible, as subject can touch his toes with relative ease and contort body in provocative ways to prepare for battle; preens and claims it’s for “strength” as prescribed to him by subject C.v.B. Virgin most likely due to personal convictions. Blushes at inuendoes at hands of D.A. or S.J.G. or C.v.R. Perhaps fancies any aforementioned subject, or all three at once? Preferences regarding gender unknown (???) Difficult to discern; must investigate further, may be useful knowledge for further interaction/observation.~~ _

He chuckled to himself.

What an unperceptive fool he’d been, in some respects.

***

He always hated weeding the courtyards, abhorred scrubbing the grass stains out of his gloves (oddly enough, the little flecks of blood he accumulated here and there were easier to remove than the damned “grass juice” as Caspar called it soaking through the fabric), and absolutely loathed the fact that their deadpanned professor seemed to love pairing him with anyone _other_ than Edelgard for the task each time.

But today would be bearable, he was sure, because Bernadetta worked diligently and closely beside him. She rolled down her long socks and her kneecaps squashed little yellow dandelions in their wake, forcing her to keep itching the skin there.

Hubert wouldn’t readily admit it, but he felt _something_ akin to friendship with Bernadetta; he’d become more than accustomed to her bouts of nervousness, her stuttering, her cowering little frame always underfoot if she needed to avoid others. He found himself occasionally missing her presence when she was absent from lectures.

Sometimes they didn’t even need to speak. Bernadetta’s large, stormy eyes would blink and fix upon whatever book he read as he sat on her cluttered dorm room floor. Sometimes her mouth crooked to one side while she nodded and hummed in acknowledgement. She wouldn’t hum if she didn’t care for the book, Hubert had noticed early on, and as of late had begun to coax her discouragement out verbally.

“I’ve been working on something new!” Bernadetta piped up after some time. She looked up briefly to watch a gull fly overhead, a little white kite against the cloudy blue sky.

“Oh?” Hubert replied. “Do tell.”

“Well, I’m not sure it’s your genre,” Bernadetta fidgeted a decapitated dandelion, plucking the stunted yellow petals roughly between green-stained nails and throwing them in the wicker basket beside her.

“I read a variety of different genres, I assure you,” Hubert replied.

“I-I mean, if I’m bothering you or blabbering on and on and you want to talk about something else, that’s okay! We can talk about something else while we work! It’s fine, it’s—”

“ _Bernadetta_. I believe I explicitly asked you to elaborate. If I had no interest in your latest work, I wouldn’t have asked.”

“R-Right,” Bernadetta stammered.

Hubert made sure to keep eye contact to a minimum while she spoke; peering down at her often made her freeze and turn away.

In order to ensure her continued loyalty to Edelgard and himself, he had to adjust his approach somewhat. Her prowess as an archer was only rivaled by Claude in their mock-battles, something that Hubert made absolutely certain Edelgard understood as well.

She was invaluable to them, and further, to Edelgard’s cause.

“Well, in this latest work, I’m trying to broaden my horizons, maybe even blend genres I’ve worked on in the past together. It’s about a knight-errant who’s friends with a page. He works under a corrupt nobleman. It’s a bit of a murder mystery, I suppose, but the draft is early in development, so maybe that’ll change,” she said.

She was so absorbed in her own imagination that she’d stopped plucking weeds altogether. Hubert moved closer to pluck weeds nearer to her than himself and she shuddered.

“My apologies,” Hubert said, taking great care to show her that he was retreating once more to work on another area of the small yard entirely.

So he’d gotten too close to her, then. Dealing with Bernadetta was rather like dealing with a rabbit; her wide eyes constantly fixed upon anything that moved even remotely close to her, she sucked in breaths to brace herself for whatever the irritant was, and burrowed somewhere soft and warm and dark to retreat.

Of course, she would let him into her little burrow within strict hours on Thursdays, usually to talk _at_ him rather than _to_ him about her writing when she was feeling social, other times to just quietly place herself in the corner of the room to continue stitching a doll of some exotic plant.

“Who do they kill?” he asked.

“W-What?”

“The errant and the page; who do they kill, in your story?”

“Oh, ah, well, uh, no one, so far; it wouldn’t be a murder mystery if we knew the murderers, right? Although, Hubert, you’ve given me something to think about,” Bernadetta mused, bringing her greenish hand to her chapped lips in thought, chewing on her blunt nails. ( _Another habit of hers to note_ , thought Hubert.)

The two of them looked up at the same time once they heard Dorothea’s voice echo off of the stone corridors, apparently wrapping up some trivial conversation. She nearly walked past them before she flashed a toothy grin and plopped down to kick her feet lazily off the stone wall.

“Well, well, how goes the work, Bern?” Dorothea crooned. She cupped her chin in her hand before tussling her hair.

“It’s pleasant, really, it is, I’m not complaining!” Bernadetta said, her smile genuine.

“Even though you’re stuck with Hubie?”

“I thought I asked you to stop calling me that, Dorothea,” he sighed. He knew it was an impossible request, but he wished she’d humor him all the same.

“Not a chance!” she said as she rolled her ankles.

“I assume you finished your duties at the stables?” Hubert cocked a brow up at Dorothea nonchalantly to gauge her reaction.

“Ah, about that,” she trailed off with a wave of her hand. “Ferdie seemed more than happy to deal with all the heavy lifting while _I_ provided some entertainment!”

“Shirking your duties again, Ms. Arnault?” Hubert asked.

Dorothea smirked, raised the back of her hand to her forehead in a theatrical fashion and gasped in the most coquettish voice she could muster, “Hubie, you would dare suggest I work myself into such a sweat that I have to peel back some layers? You’ll have to do much better than that to flirt with me.”

Hubert mused inwardly that his interactions with Dorothea were usually a game of cat and mouse; Dorothea was just a plucky mouse who fancied herself a cat.

“Oh I would hardly call _you_ delicate,” he smirked in her direction, catching the tip of her tongue being poked out of her mouth with a wink.

Bernadetta must have caught the reaction too and bowed her head to snort-laugh; it was a childish sort of giggle, but one that suited Bernadetta’s high voice well. It still took Hubert by surprise each time she did it.

“You’re right, Hubie, I could probably put you over my knee and snap you like a twig.”

“That may be so,” Hubert acknowledged, “but my mouth and hands could outcast yours, tenfold.”

“Oh, I’ve _seen_ the kind of damage your mouth and hands can do,” she smirked.

Hubert narrowed his gaze but took great care to not let his own leer falter.

Her innuendo didn’t seem to affect Bernadetta at all, who was now plucking a wild daisy and muttering lines of potential dialogue for her writing under her breath and swiftly saying “no, Bernie, that’s terrible, try harder!”

“You’re a woman who likes to play with her food before she eats it,” Hubert remarked. “Unfortunately for you, I’m not terribly interested in being prey.”

“Oh come now, it’s just for fun!” Dorothea waggled a singular brow.

“The flies trapped in a black widow’s web surely don’t know the nature of the game.”

“Well maybe they’d like it more if they understood the prospects of being pinned beneath something more powerful than themselves? Before they get eaten, that is,” Dorothea laughed.

“What _is_ it you want, Dorothea?” Hubert finally asked, propping his palms on his knee before rising from the field.

“Me? Want something?” she asked, raising a hand to her clavicle. “Why, what’s wrong with wanting to talk to my friends while they do chores?”

Hubert rolled his eyes, brushing stray blades of grass from his uniform. She pushed off the ledge to saunter over and pick odd dandelion petals that had found their way into his hair.

“You ought to bathe,” she sighed. “Your hair’s getting oily again.”

He shooed her hand away, smoothing the odd curls sticking up here and there until they turned wavy once more. “My hair isn’t _oily_ , Dorothea. I bathed merely yesterday.”

“Well, you men tend to get pretty sweaty. Especially if you’re doing any _rigorous activities_. Poor Ferdie, I bet he’s still sweating through his shirt from lifting all those bales of feed! I can’t say what’s more scandalous, him keeping the shirt on or taking it off!”

Hubert couldn’t even hide his stubborn blush bleeding onto his cheeks and nose. Before he even had the chance to recover, Dorothea was waving goodbye to Bernadetta—who was still off in her own little world—and giddily turned on her heels to pester someone else.

It was the first time in a long time he’d fallen for something so obvious.

***

Hubert was nearly an hour late; he promised Ferdinand he would join him no later than 8, but it was nearly 9 by the time he’d remembered to check his pocket watch. He’d taken some evening coffee with Edelgard to discuss a multitude of possibilities concerning potential students joining the Black Eagles house, but finally, Edelgard asked him the uncomfortable question that had been lingering between them.

“And Ferdinand?” she asked. “Do you believe he’ll remain loyal?”

“I’m certain of it, Edelgard,” Hubert said.

“How certain?”

“As certain as I know the sun will rise come morning,” he reassured her.

In actuality, he wasn’t certain at all. How would Ferdinand navigate the liminal space between nobility and commoner, without a title, surely without land, and without any wealth? Would he still love Hubert, even if Hubert had nothing to give him in turn? Would he resent Edelgard and her convictions for the new world? Would he lead a resistance in retribution for losing all the prestige and bounties tied to the Aegir house?

But as he looked into Edelgard’s worried eyes, he knew she asked herself the same questions. The eyes: that must have been how his unconscious mind knew the thing from his dream was an imposter, not the real Edelgard. Hubert warned Edelgard numerous times, when her hair was still ash brown, that her eyes always gave her emotions away. She was well-versed in the art of being guarded and covert now, but Hubert was ever grateful she felt safe enough to be honest with him.

Even as he bid her farewell for the night, he still swore he saw that little girl who clutched his sleeve tight—so tight, in fact, that for a few years in his youth, all his shirts were slightly longer in the left arm than the right.

He remained fixed on that memory, even as he found himself knocking at the door and entering Ferdinand’s room, always bolting it behind him.

“I’m not sure I expected you to show at all,” Ferdinand crossed his arms.

Hubert’s mind percolated on the image before him: an aggravated Ferdinand, nostrils flared slightly as he huffed out one drawn-out breath. And for as handsome as Hubert usually found him, the Ferdinand von Aegir before him was _different_ than any iteration he’d seen yet.

He wore a white shirt that billowed from his arms in such a way that it exaugurated how sturdy and full his upper body had become from mornings spent training, a teasing little sliver of breast accentuated by the way the fabric clung to him. He also a pair of jodhpurs that Hubert had seen on many occasions before, but what Hubert was especially drawn to were the shiny black boots he’d donned for the evening.

It was subtle, but it didn’t escape Hubert that Ferdinand crossed his leg across his lap to run his hand along the leather boot before resting it on his kneecap. “Do you like it?” Ferdinand played coy.

Hubert muttered his response under his breath and turned away from Ferdinand’s intense gaze to stare at a particular thread on the dorm room carpet.

“I believe I asked you a question, Hubert,” Ferdinand said, his voice still steady and proud, but with that little hint of playfulness that teased Hubert so.

“It certainly sends a statement,” Hubert replied.

“I would hope so. I thought, perhaps we could… readjust the roles, if only for tonight. And, if that is not to your liking, I will not take offense—”

“It is,” Hubert blurted out, his mouth still agape and cheeks burning when Ferdinand laughed.

“Is your word the same?” Ferdinand asked.

“Always.”

“As is mine,” Ferdinand hummed. “And are you sure? That this is alright, I mean.”

“Yes,” Hubert huffed.

“Very well then. Strip.”

Hubert ignored the tremor in his hands from the excitement—the _promise_ —of being seized and controlled by Ferdinand and instead clumsily pawed at his gloves.

“Wait: keep on your gloves, but remove everything else. Those are mine to remove this evening.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Hubert said purely out of instinct and his eyes widened in embarrassment. He made a great effort to hide behind his bangs as he turned his face away.

“I quite like that,” Ferdinand declared, “but let me look at your beautiful face, little one.”

Hubert sputtered and looked once more at Ferdinand.

“Handsome as ever,” Ferdinand sighed, absentmindedly playing with the fabric against his chest as he smiled sweetly up at Hubert. It was almost as if he was examining him as one would an exotic butterfly pinned under a glass case.

“Hardly,” he said, taking great care to remove his uniform jacket.

“When I complement you, do you not believe me?”

Hubert paused before shimmying out of his boots, hoping that Ferdinand didn’t the small vials he kept along the inside where the shoes touched his ankles. “It isn’t that I don’t believe you, just rather that… you’re mistaken. My Lord.”

“I see,” Ferdinand said as his fingers tapped against his knee. “I have an exercise to help with that, if you trust me. Do you trust me?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Ferdinand finally stood up from his chair after Hubert had removed all his layers and held Hubert’s face in his hands, peering up at him with all the reverence in the world, as if he were the damned Goddess herself.

“Now,” Ferdinand began, kissing along Hubert’s gloves before pulling them off gently, pinching the tip of the material at his fingertips before the fabric slipped, “you would do well to follow my instructions. And do not even think about fighting back. Sit on the bed, before the wardrobe.”

Hubert nodded, suddenly shy under Ferdinand’s attention. He plopped down where he was told to but tried hiding behind his hair once again.

“Do you remember the last time you saw yourself like this?” Ferdinand asked. He sat behind Hubert and traced his thick fingers over his wiry arms, leaving prickling gooseflesh in his wake. Ferdinand brushed his hair out of his eye.

Hubert shifted, not daring to look at his own pink face in the mirror. Flames, he couldn’t even look at himself in his _own_ wardrobe mirror without sputtering at his reflection for several days since the last incident.

Hubert gulped. He tucked his face in Ferdinand’s shoulder. Ferdinand kissed his forehead before snatching his jaw and forcing him to stare back in the mirror.

“We will go over every aspect of your body together,” Ferdinand purred in Hubert’s ear, “and you will tell me what you admire about yourself. Should you fail to find something you like, you will entrust me to find some way for you to make it up to me. You would not want to disappoint me, would you?”

“No, my Lord,” Hubert furrowed his brows.

What kind of a game was this?

“Let’s begin here,” Ferdinand grazed his knuckles along Hubert’s pale feet. “What do you enjoy about these?”

Hubert grimaced. “There’s nothing to enjoy about my feet!” he said, crossing his arms. “This is ridiculous!”

“It is _not_ ridiculous,” Ferdinand asserted.

He repositioned himself to kneel on the ground, holding the soles of Hubert’s feet in his hands as if they were the most precious gemstones in the world. He kissed the tops of them, smiling up at him as his lips danced across his ankles. Ferdinand nibbled weakly at one, just enough to show his canines without leaving any mark on the pale, veiny skin there.

Hubert covered his face with his hands while his stomach fluttered.

“If you’re trying to make fun of me, I swear to that supposed Goddess above that I’ll burn everything you love in this—!”

“ _Patience_ , my little raven. I will make certain you will know when I am playing with you. Nothing about praising you is a joke to me.”

Hubert almost scoffed but decided to play along; the reward could be quite promising.

“Now, you will answer me,” Ferdinand commanded.

It was a tone Hubert only heard in him when he was on the battlefield, but it was somehow _different_ when directed at him. Enticing, a little dangerous, but completely controlled. Hubert shivered a little at Ferdinand’s command, peeking down at Ferdinand behind his hands.

“Uncover your face and speak to me.”

Hubert threw his hands in his lap and stared at Ferdinand wide-eyed.

“I don’t… I don’t know, my Lord.”

Ferdinand scrunched his brows together, biting his lip for a moment before looking up at Hubert once more.

“Please believe me when I tell you I find them beautiful. However, it did not escape me that you struggled to praise them. I will keep a running tally. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Hubert answered.

In his imagination, before all of this, Ferdinand would be cruel. He would rough him up, slap him, slam him down on the mattress as he brutally fucked him, wrap those powerful hands around his fragile throat and squeeze until Hubert saw stars.

But Ferdinand— _his_ Ferdinand— instead massaged his calves, looked up at him with those wonderfully warm eyes, kissed the sparse black hair lining the flesh there.

“And your legs, my little raven? What do you love about them?”

“They work,” Hubert gritted out, making a conscious effort to not buck up into Ferdinand’s touch when his calloused fingertips trailed up and accidentally ticked his thighs.

“While that is certainly true,” he cooed, “I want you to name a particular characteristic about them you enjoy.”

“I… I like their length,” Hubert spat out, unable to mask the pleased groan crawling out of his throat. Ferdinand lined his thighs with kisses, swipes of his eager tongue, staccato little bites.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t rake his own nails there on the odd occasion that he wanted to imagine Ferdinand doing so to him when he touched himself, but he hadn’t ever imagined Ferdinand’s teeth nipping at his skin in a way that intermingled his ticklishness with the thrill of more pain to come.

“I adore how long they are as well, but they are deceptively powerful; they carry you effortlessly fast, allow you to reach heights I may never, and I adore how they snake around mine when you finally fall asleep. Your legs are so _tempting_ , my darling, especially when I imagine them draped over my shoulders as I thrust into you.”

“Fuck!” Hubert hissed. It was impossible for him to hide what Ferdinand’s praise was doing to him, but he was long past the point of pretending he had an ounce of control.

“You did so well,” Ferdinand kissed along where he had nipped at before. He duly noted Hubert’s straining erection but completely ignored it otherwise.

Hubert growled in annoyance until a dark chuckle escaped Ferdinand and he bit harshly on his boney hip.

“Perhaps I spoke too soon. Had you already forgotten that I had told you that you were not to put up a fight?”

“I didn’t forget,” Hubert said. Two could play this unfair game, he decided.

“Ah, so you admit that you are being difficult on purpose? To get a rise out of me?” Ferdinand remained kneeling on the floor but brought his hands up to clasp Hubert’s sides.

Hubert bit his tongue. Ferdinand rose to his feet, pushing Hubert onto the mattress; he was striking like this, Hubert decided, using his charms and inherit strength to his advantage.

“Remember that I will reward you if you are good for me,” his voice dipped low in Hubert’s ear, and he could feel the fine curly hairs at the base of his neck prickle at the roots. “Will you be good, play our little game?”

“Yes, my Lord!” Hubert groaned, writhing against nothing as he clawed at the white sheets.

He must have looked pathetic. He could only guess what sickly shade of pink he’d turned; perhaps Ferdinand would pity him and end the game early.

Hubert secretly hoped he had the capacity to be a little cruel like the lover he’d conjured up in the early mornings after long, sleepless nights. A cruel, composed Ferdinand wouldn’t give in so easily. He would make Hubert _work_ for him, _beg_ for release, maybe even cry as he licked his Lord’s boots clean.

“You are the most beautiful little creature in the world,” Ferdinand said, punctuating his praise with soft kisses all along his throat before quickly dragging his teeth against the skin there as he had all along Hubert’s body that evening thus far.

 _He loves you, and yet, all you do is omit everything of importance with him_ , a soft, unwelcome voice flitted in Hubert’s thoughts. _He surely won’t love you anymore when the real war begins_. _He’ll know you lied to him, about everything. He’ll kill you for making a fool of him._

Hubert snuffed out the voice as swiftly as it had entered his thoughts.

“No, I’m not,” Hubert mumbled. He darted his eyes around the room, as if to find something to fixate on other than Ferdinand’s all-consuming aura, but it was useless.

Ferdinand pinned Hubert’s hands above him. His gaze was so powerful, so intense it was almost like staring into the sun itself; Hubert felt so small underneath him despite logically knowing he was taller.

Perhaps it was because Ferdinand was still dressed.

He watched Ferdinand’s chest rise and fall, little copper hairs peeking through the dip in his white dress shirt and catching the candlelight. The hairs there glistened like lanterns being reflected into a pool of water. He wanted nothing more than to lap at those gorgeous nipples, adore his breasts like he ought to, draw forth the loveliest noises from those pretty lips, make Ferdinand moan his name.

But right now? Right now, he was helpless.

“Look at me when I speak to you, little raven,” Ferdinand once again assumed that dominating tone that made Hubert flush furiously. Hubert gasped, tried wrapping his legs around Ferdinand’s sculpted hips, but Ferdinand pinned his legs under the sheer weight and strength of his own.

“I know how you work,” he continued. “You think that I am weak, that I will simply give in and allow you to finish simply because I find you so enchanting? That I would let you coax me into giving you exactly what you want without fulfilling your part of the bargain?”

“No, my Lord!” Hubert breathed.

“Do not lie to me,” Ferdinand’s tone hardened slightly, and it shouldn’t have affected Hubert the way it did, but he tried wriggling against Ferdinand’s hold in an effort to graze his leaking cock against _something_.

Ferdinand’s gaze drifted down to Hubert’s erection. He licked his lips and smiled.

“I see that I have some effect over you, but I must take proper precautions if I am to continue praising you the way you deserve. Can I trust you to be good enough to not move for one moment?”

Hubert nodded weakly.

“I will make note of your good behavior. Stay put, now,” Ferdinand kissed him so softly that he felt his heavy eyes close on their own accord and Ferdinand’s eyelashes grazed against his cheek for a moment.

He didn’t open his eyes when he felt Ferdinand retreat from him. Ferdinand hummed to himself—an infuriating tune, if Hubert said so—as he must have opened drawers within his wardrobe if the sound of wood scrapping against wood was any indication.

He felt a quiet discomfort creep over him, something akin to the same feeling that had seized him when he panicked all those nights ago, when Ferdinand’s warmth left him when he needed him most. Hubert had learned from past experiences that whenever Ferdinand’s touch deserted him like this, he always returned with something of comfort, a little indulgent treat just for him.

This time proved no different.

“Is… is this too much?” Ferdinand asked. He must have sat on the edge of the bed from the way the frame beneath them creaked.

Hubert opened his eyes and turned to Ferdinand, who held a cable of rope in his hands. It was dyed a brilliant shade of pine green, certainly far too pretty a thing to tie _him_ up with. It was also abysmally short if the cable were going to encase Hubert’s body in the manner he imagined.

He quickly corrected himself: of course Ferdinand wouldn’t know what material was best for this kind of technique, or how long it needed to be. He never had a reason to bind and gag someone, to make them spill their secrets, to shock them with terrible spurts of magic. He probably read about tying up a lover in some sentimental, flowery, _secretive_ romance novel he’d had to hide from prying eyes.

Despite this rationalization, Hubert couldn’t hide the fact that his lips parted when he was presented with the rope, his arousal mounting even higher. An uncharacteristically shy Ferdinand worried his bottom lip with his teeth before tucking in a wild strand of red hair behind his ear. He looked up at Hubert through his thick sable lashes before quickly looking away. A healthy flush bloomed underneath faint freckles, and Hubert’s stomach lurched.

Hubert really was in love.

It frightened him.

“O-Of course we do _not_ have to do this if it isn’t to your liking!” Ferdinand justified, still stammering and playing with is hair. “I just rather liked the image in my mind.”

“I would love nothing more,” Hubert replied quietly.

Ferdinand laughed, his eyes crinkling in the corners just the way Hubert liked. It was a joyous sound, one that Hubert always found himself smiling at now.

“I must confess, I have never done this before,” Ferdinand scooped Hubert up effortlessly, lining him up in the middle of the bed and carefully guiding his wrists above him. He motioned for Hubert to sit up before snatching up a fluffy pillow to prop his head up with. If nothing else, Ferdinand was a considerate lover who relished in the finer details. It was a fact Hubert determined he would take full advantage of time and time again.

“I figured as much,” Hubert quipped back, stealing a quick kiss from Ferdinand. The younger man climbed clumsily above him in order to gauge how much rope he would have to use to tie him to the bedpost.

Hubert thanked his lucky stars that Ferdinand seemed to want to start with a very simple objective: to tie his wrists.

“Do you have a knife to cut the rope with, in case it poses a danger?” Hubert asked, distracting Ferdinand from his task momentarily.

“Why could I not just untie the knots?” he asked.

“Sometimes knots can slip, become tighter, and cut off circulation. They can become uncomfortable rather quickly.”

 _I need a knife near in case I need to pull it on you_ , the sick voice returned to Hubert once more, despite his earlier efforts to suppress it.

“R-Right,” Ferdinand smirked, as if trying to conjure a false sense of confidence. It was a mask that may have fooled others, but it did nothing to sway Hubert.

Hubert tried to lift himself off the bed, only for one warm, large hand to nudge him back down.

“Stay,” Ferdinand commanded.

Hubert nodded.

Ferdinand leapt from the bed and fumbled around in his desk drawers before bringing an ostentatious blade with a jeweled handle. Hubert would have laughed at its gaudiness in a normal circumstance, but watching Ferdinand place the knife on the nightstand with the handle facing him gave him some solace.

“Now…” he began attempting to tie Hubert again with renewed vigor; Hubert was _almost_ impressed with his skill. It seemed as if Ferdinand had been practicing for this very moment. Knowing now what he knew about Ferdinand, he most certainly _had_ practiced, had probably wanted to tie Hubert to this very bed for _months_.

As Ferdinand laced him into place, Hubert remembered a particular warning his father had given him when he was young. _Never allow yourself to be compromised_ , he could hear the man’s hissing voice ringing in his mind, _for a boy as weak as you has little fight within him_.

He loathed him—what he did to Edelgard, primarily, as he could deal with the reality of being little less than a protégé for his smarmy sire—and very regularly had dreams in which he strangled the man and blinded him in a flurry of Reason. He hated looking in the mirror some mornings and seeing nothing but an exaggerated face of the man that aided in the damnation of his Lady.

The difference between the two would be that Hubert would be on the right side, in the end.

“Is it too tight?” Ferdinand kissed his cheek.

He blinked. His thin wrists wriggled about against the rope.

“Too loose,” Hubert grumbled.

“I see,” Ferdinand hummed. “Thank you for helping me, little raven. I want to be the best for you that I can be.”

Hubert cursed his pale skin for flushing at the drop of a hat but hearing Ferdinand’s little sweet sentiments grace his ears made his skin feel electric.

“How about now?”

Hubert tried to move his wrists and discovered they wouldn’t budge, though the rope was comfortable against his skin. The material was a little coarser than he might have suspected upon first glace.

Ferdinand tipped his face up to meet his gaze.

“Perfect, my Lord,” Hubert exhaled quietly.

“Not nearly as perfect as you,” Ferdinand whispered, his impeccably composed smile shifting into something more playful.

_He could kill you right now, and you would not even put up a fight._

“I believe you once told me that that you would—oh, what was the phrase?—ah, yes, “reward” me “immeasurably” if I played along with your game. I ask that you do the same. This includes telling me your word, if needed. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Hubert answered.

“Yes _what_?” Ferdinand’s playful smirk deepened.

“Yes, my Lord!” Hubert cried as Ferdinand’s hand graced his aching cock for the first time that evening, achingly loose where Hubert needed his grip to be tight.

Ferdinand withdrew his hand as suddenly as it had found its way there. Hubert groaned.

“You will not fight against me and my efforts to please you as I see fit. You will watch my every move, and answer when spoken to. I will keep a running tally of the amount of times you struggle to answer my questions or address me properly. You have one infraction thus far, and I will punish you in accordance when the time comes. Is this all clear to you?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Excellent.” Ferdinand’s praise was genuine. He stroked Hubert’s cheek with his knuckles. Hubert instinctively sighed and closed his eyes once more. “What about your stomach? Your hips?”

Ah, so they were still playing _this_ game. Hubert was hoping they had moved on.

“My hips are too narrow to be of note. My stomach is utterly unremarkable, but I suppose it keeps my torso stitched to my legs,” he said. “Is that all, my Lord?”

“Try harder,” Ferdinand demanded. He shifted down on the bed and nipped at Hubert’s stomach. The loose fabric of his blouse clung to Hubert’s sticky precum and grazed against his cock in a painfully teasing manner. He twitched against the other man’s full chest.

Damn that Ferdinand von Aegir!

“I see that this is beyond your capabilities. Very well, then: your hips are so angular and look positively ravishing in everything you wear. As for your stomach, I adore it, especially the little mole beneath your navel. Have you ever examined your own body this way? Praised it for all of its glory?” Ferdinand asked, lifting his head and batting his eyelashes in a way Hubert shouldn’t have found so intoxicating.

“My body doesn’t need praising,” Hubert whimpered; Ferdinand lined his length with little kitten licks and wet kisses. “My Lord!” he added quickly.

“And who determines what you need?”

“I suppose you do, my Lord.”

“Correct,” Ferdinand purred, lapping lazily at the base of his cock, his balls, his perineum. Hubert bucked his hips up into nothing before Ferdinand strategically lifted his thighs and darted his tongue against Hubert’s now-twitching hole.

Hubert couldn’t cum from such little stimulation, but he needed to.

Ferdinand forcefully slammed him down on the mattress again before tweaking Hubert’s tawny nipples softly.

“We’re at three infractions now, little raven,” Ferdinand said.

“Three?”

“One for failing to praise your feet, one for outright refusing to praise both your hips and stomach—which I will generously lump together, as I am not a cruel master—and the final for determining what you _do_ and _do not_ need. That is my duty.”

Ferdinand opened the nightstand and retrieved the bottle of lubricant, spreading a generous amount onto three of his fingers.

“Because you have chosen to make this difficult for yourself,” Ferdinand continued, “I have to follow through with my promise to punish you accordingly. Spread those lovely legs for me, little one.”

Hubert complied, though he did attempt to hide his face behind his arm in vain.

“You _will_ look at me while I open you up,” Ferdinand demanded, settling in between Hubert’s legs once more.

“I am sorry, my Lord,” Hubert whimpered as Ferdinand’s middle finger teased his hole before very gently entering. He did as directed and look down at Ferdinand, who curled his mouth and finger upward simultaneously.

“If you are truly sorry—and are not trying to wrestle control from me—you _will_ do as instructed.”

“Yes, my Lord, I just—”

“Enough,” Ferdinand muttered against Hubert’s cock. His hot breath caused him to twitch instinctively, and Ferdinand’s vexing tongue swiped up and down his slit as he added a second finger to thrust into Hubert slowly.

“I am not finished with you yet,” Ferdinand huffed, chuckling darkly when Hubert bucked up his hips in an effort to thrust into his moving mouth. “And your reward for completing this task will be what I determine is best for you. After all, would I be a good master to you if I rewarded your bad behavior?”

Hubert shook his head, eyes hazy from lust.

“What about your chest, darling?”

The pace of Ferdinand’s fingers was quickening, and Hubert moaned more so at the lewd, slick noise of his ministrations than the pressure against his prostate.

“I enjoy… I enjoy how it feels after I’ve shaved,” Hubert finally settled on. He couldn’t think of anything else.

“Are you ready for another, as a treat for being good?” Ferdinand cooed, flexing his fingers inside Hubert to punctuate his question.

“No! No my Lord! I haven’t earned it yet!” Hubert’s voice was barely recognizable to his own ears, all breathy moans and pitiable whimpers.

The voice in his mind returned only to reprimanded him.

 _All you ever do is grovel_ , _you submissive little bitch!_

“I see,” Ferdinand hummed. “I am inclined to agree with you, just this once. Tell me then, what about your arms?”

“I can use their— _ah!_ —length to my advantage when I cast my magic. I relish in the feeling of holding you with them!”

“You are doing _so_ well, my love,” Ferdinand kissed the head of his cock, lapping greedily at the semi-steady stream of precum that dripped from there. “Do you believe you have you earned your treat yet?”

“No!”

“Then we continue. Your hands.”

Hubert’s eyes rolled back instinctually as Ferdinand’s beautiful mouth enveloped a healthy portion of his length and he added the third finger. He remembered Ferdinand’s command—that he watch his every move—and forced himself to look down, watch Ferdinand’s gaze meet his as he attempted to hollow his cheeks to take in more, more, _more_. Ferdinand moaned, still watching Hubert.

“I-I l-love touching you with them! I’m capable of so much because of them, I could please you for hours alone with just my fingers!”

Ferdinand smiled as much as one could with a cock in their mouth. He withdrew his fingers and mouth before Hubert could release the pressure that felt like it had been surging through his cock for hours.

 _He’s not interested in you anymore,_ the voice told him before Hubert’s mind grappled with the amorphous entity lurking in the shadows of his thoughts.

He needed to exist right here, right now.

Nothing existed outside of this bedroom.

There would be no war, no bloodshed, no loss.

Just Ferdinand. _Ferdinand_.

“While we did not get to finish what I had intended to tonight, I think you finally earned your prize,” Ferdinand winked.

If Hubert were in his right mind, he would have lashed out verbally at Ferdinand for such a predictable line, but he found himself spreading his legs wider as Ferdinand made a show of unlacing his white frilly shirt. It pooled to the floor like the first snows of winter; if Hubert were more poetic, he may have even likened the image of Ferdinand stripping to something more romantic, but it wouldn’t have been an authentic reaction, for all his thoughts were consumed by Ferdinand, _his Lord_.

Ferdinand bit his lip as he fondled himself through the fabric of his jodhpurs, a dark patch forming from the impressive arousal straining there. He hadn’t imagined the Ferdinand in his mind to be nearly as endowed as he was in reality, but Hubert loved him as he was, especially as he unfastened the front of the riding pants.

Ferdinand surprisingly did not slip the pants off completely.

“It would be a shame if I did not ask you to pay your proper respects before I remove these,” Ferdinand proclaimed, bringing his boot to nudge against Hubert’s cheek.

Hubert blushed feverishly, only managing a quick kiss to the leather. It was clear Ferdinand had cleaned and polished them to an unnaturally immaculate state before asking Hubert to kiss them that evening; the realization caused a deep throb inside of him. He cursed himself for not being nearly as bold as he was in his imagination when he had conjured up similar images to the scenario playing out before him.

_If you fail to please him now, you’ll lose him forever._

“You are being so good. Perhaps you needed the praise more than you realized.”

Hubert stuttered, but was offered Ferdinand’s left boot. He kissed it as fondly as he normally would Ferdinand’s cheek.

“You look so beautiful like this, pinned down and kissing my boots,” Ferdinand withdrew his foot and shucked off them and his pants in quick succession. He climbed back on the bed and on top of Hubert. His kisses were surprisingly chaste, slow, tender. His hands trailed up and down his frame, rubbing tiny circles all along Hubert’s waist.

Hubert wanted to return the favor, but his bound hands prevented him from caressing Ferdinand’s face or holding him tight. Instead, he wrapped his legs around Ferdinand’s hips, pressed his heels hard against his ass in order to make his need clear.

Ferdinand laughed, giving little bites to Hubert’s throat and grabbing the vial of lubricant once more.

“I love you so dearly. You are everything I have ever wanted and more,” he whispered against the shell of Hubert’s ear.

Hubert twitched wildly when Ferdinand hissed, the cold lube spilling onto his own outrageously flushed cock.

“Are you ready, darling?” Ferdinand asked, lining himself up to Hubert’s entrance.

“I want anything you are willing to give me, my Lord,” Hubert whispered, unable to hide his excitement.

He still wasn’t used to Ferdinand’s sheer size and choked back a guttural noise from the burn of being stretched so wide it felt as if he would split in two. Ferdinand stilled above him, shifting his weight to one side as he wiped the corner of Hubert’s eyes. He brushed the remaining hair out of Hubert’s face completely, offering a little pained smile.

“If this hurts,” Ferdinand said, “I should reward you in a different manner.”

_You’re weak!_

“No!” Hubert yelled, startling Ferdinand. “I need… I _need—_!”

“Then we shall go slowly,” Ferdinand stated.

Ferdinand was nothing if not true to his word, as he always was. Hubert just wanted to be _fucked_ already, to be swallowed in an all-consuming pleasure, to drown in Ferdinand’s worship. But for now, he would take any scrap of him that he could, and if that meant his breath stuttered each time Ferdinand sank into him more and more, so be it.

“Look at yourself,” Ferdinand tipped Hubert’s head toward the mirror and thrusted at a glacial pace. From this angle he couldn’t see Ferdinand inside him, but he could see the slight furrowing of his trimmed brows, the little brown and beige moles and freckles painting his shoulders, the bounce in his wavy hair from his movements.

Slowly, Ferdinand increased the pace, and Hubert found himself rolling his hips up to meet each thrust. “My Lord—” Hubert began, but was interrupted by Ferdinand lowering his face near his own, turning his face to meet his away from the mirror.

“What is it that you need?” he asked, littering Hubert’s jaw with tiny kisses.

Hubert knew what he _wanted_. He wanted Ferdinand’s hands around his throat. He wanted to gasp for air, curl his toes as the sense of arousal grew in his belly, and have Ferdinand leave him writhing and on the verge of spilling over. He wanted Ferdinand to put on those riding boots again, scold Hubert for his half-hearted adoration earlier, force him to cum on them and shine them with only his tongue.

But more than he wanted to indulge in his own depravity, he _needed_ to ensure that Ferdinand wouldn’t leave him, wouldn’t grow bored, wouldn’t hate him.

“Use your words, little raven,” Ferdinand’s authoritative tone returned and Hubert squirmed underneath him.

“Choke me, my Lord,” Hubert uttered so softly he knew Ferdinand wouldn’t hear his plea.

“What was that?” Ferdinand pulled out of Hubert completely, looking down at him intently.

Hubert wondered for a moment if this is what it felt like to be one of Ferdinand’s horses—his attention was unwavering, he had the utmost control over every movement Hubert made, yet he was deliberately gentle as he ran his thumb along his lip.

Hubert couldn’t formulate anything coherent. Instead, he opened his mouth and _whimpered_ against Ferdinand’s thumb.

“If you cannot ask for what you need, how can I as your master see to it that you are taken care of properly?” Ferdinand _tsk_ ed.

“Choke me while you take me, _please_ , I would do anything—!”

“Anything?”

“Yes, just— _flames_ Ferdinand, you infernal man, stop teasing me so!” Hubert grumbled, slamming his eyes shut and knitting his brows together. He tried to pull away from Ferdinand’s singeing touch to no avail. Ferdinand’s fingernails scraped all along his skin, deep enough to create small pink rivers in his skin only for tonight.

“How will I know if I have gone too far?” he asked quietly, hesitantly.

Hubert opened his eyes once more. “One finger to keep going,” he demonstrated. “Two to ease up your grip. Three to stop everything completely. Never place your weight on the windpipe, rather, squeeze the arteries alongside the throat.”

“Like this?” Ferdinand asked innocently, probing his fingers on the sides of Hubert’s long neck, squeezing lightly where blood pumped through his body. Hubert moaned and Ferdinand laughed quietly.

“You are so clever,” Ferdinand leaned in and kissed the skin behind his ear. “You find solutions to problems I would never have even known existed. What do you say, little raven, when I praise you like this?”

“T-Thank you, my Lord,” Hubert’s voice deadened to a whisper, slowly constricted by Ferdinand’s grasp.

Actually _feeling_ those fingers claim his breath, rather than absent-mindedly imagining them there during his sleepless stints, stilled the restless voice within him. He knew it wouldn’t be silenced forever, couldn’t possibly be, but perhaps he’d escaped it for now.

He felt his skin prickle with warmth from where Ferdinand’s grasp rested upon him, just firm enough that he could feel the swish of blood in his now-warm ears, but just loose enough that little gasps escaped his windpipe.

Ferdinand released his grasp momentarily, shifting his focus to penetrating Hubert slowly, too sweet and vulnerable to suit his tastes in that moment. He didn’t deserve such praise—he never did—and he knew it.

If only Ferdinand _knew_ what kind of a man he was, what wonderful violence he was capable of, why, he would have never claimed him as his own.

“Look at me,” Ferdinand warned him again, and Hubert didn’t remember closing his eyes. Ferdinand’s own eyes were half-lidded, flickering with a hint of deviousness that stoked the heat pooling in his lower belly again. He snapped his hips in a particular way that slammed into Hubert’s prostate. He wailed pathetically behind his clenched mouth.

“You are so lovely like this, taking my cock so well,” Ferdinand proclaimed before crashing his lips against Hubert’s, thrusting into him in earnest now. He swallowed Hubert’s cries greedily, groaning into his mouth in turn. He lapped at his tongue like the monastery cats would a bowl of milk Ashe had surely snuck out of the dining hall to them—a sight Hubert had observed on many a quiet morning before—and Hubert had no chance to regain his breath before Ferdinand squeezed around his throat again.

“Fingers,” Ferdinand commanded in that domineering tone that made Hubert’s flush reach his chest, though he sounded so far away from the constant, steady pounding in his ears. Hubert raised one long finger.

“Harder!” he wheezed.

Ferdinand obliged, small increments of pressure being added each time Hubert moaned for more.

He could barely hear himself, but his voice sounded foreign to his own ears. His voice only crawled to notes this high when he sang quiet lullabies to Edelgard.

Sometimes, he’d spend hours bathed in the brown light of the early dawn waiting at her window, her nightmares about rats and silverfish crawling over her siblings’ corpses causing her to scream for him. He would brush her snow-white hair, braid it into needlessly complicated sequences that would cause tight waves to spill over her shoulders the next day. He would sing every tune he knew until her tears ceased and her quivering breaths steadied with sleep.

It was a particularly jarring thought, one that had nothing to do with Ferdinand fucking him so thoroughly he couldn’t speak. He cursed his mind for causing him to worry about things he couldn’t control in this moment.

Ferdinand released his grasp and a sputtering breath pierced Hubert’s lungs. It hurt, to be sure, but that just made him squeeze his thighs around Ferdinand’s hips tighter.

“Look at you,” Ferdinand hummed, “I’ve— _Saints!_ —never seen you so desperate before. Little raven…” Ferdinand trailed off, opting to kiss all along Hubert’s neck in favor of speaking.

When he pulled away slightly, Hubert nipped at Ferdinand’s collarbone, first out of instinct, then out of curiosity to see if Ferdinand would forget his new position as Hubert’s master that evening.

“You are a dangerous little thing,” Ferdinand’s tone hardened once more, and he withdrew from Hubert completely. His touch, his heat, his presence inside him—all gone in seconds.

Hubert struggled against the restraints, kicked his heels against the sheets as Ferdinand kneeled at the foot of the bed, his strong arms crossed over his chest. He cocked a brow and tilted his head up to peer down at Hubert as if to mock the motion Hubert performed regularly.

“And you were doing so well, too. A pity. I think perhaps you forgot who owns whom tonight. Or, perhaps, you are under the impression that I am incapable of controlling you? Is that it?”

“No, my Lord,” Hubert hissed, tears threatening to leave his glassy eyes.

“Shall I break you like a spirited stallion? You do appear to require some training, alongside some humbling.”

“Yes, yes!” Hubert sobbed.

_You’re disgusting; Ferdinand would want something as wretched as you._

Ferdinand descended upon him once more, sliding in easily to fill Hubert to the hilt. He panted, slamming into Hubert particularly harsh; Hubert stifled his scream against his gritted teeth, a hot stream of air escaping his nostrils.

Ferdinand kept his harsh rhythm as he shifted his weight away from the hand encasing Hubert’s throat. He continually asked for Hubert to show him his fingers, only for Hubert to show him a single magic-maimed digit each time. Hubert could feel the bed rock and screech and groan beneath them, the bedframe surely colliding with the wall if the drowned-out reverberation was any indication.

But Hubert was ascending to heights he’d never known, his cock throbbing in a perilous mixture of pain and pleasure, his mind completely empty for once in his damned life. His chest was heaving, and his eyes burned from being open so wide for so long.

“When I praise you, you _will_ take it,” Ferdinand growled against his ear while squeezing his throat once again. “You like this, don’t you? Knowing that I own you, that I can claim you as I like, that I can make you see stars?”

“Y-Yes!” Hubert squeaked, his breathy voice untraceable to his drifting mind. “My Lord, make me yours!”

“Oh but darling,” Ferdinand cooed, “I already own you.”

A long, strange, garbled scream shattered his eardrums, making everything sound simultaneously liquid and fuzzy. Hubert’s throat burned and a constant high-pitched ringing stung his ears, but his lungs swelled with oxygen once more. A wonderful throbbing sensation swallowed his whole body, pooling in his cock and where Ferdinand remained inside him. The spend painting his stomach and chest was still warm.

And what a beautiful sight Ferdinand was—breathless, smiling wide as little sweat droplets hit Hubert’s chest, his forearms as shaky as a newborn foal’s.

Hubert smiled in turn, raised his hand to meet Ferdinand’s flushed cheek, only for his wrist to remain frozen in place.

He was trapped.

He thrashed against the rope, twisting and turning until Ferdinand clutched his sides.

“Be still, my love! I will free you,” Ferdinand said, his voice soft, reminiscent of when he’d read to Hubert in the candlelight.

“Ferdinand!” his mouth moved, though he was unsure if he made any sound.

But as always, Ferdinand’s promise was genuine. Hubert didn’t even watch him untie the offending green threads keeping him pinned there. His hands lurched forward once he was free.

Ferdinand swept him up in his arms, holding him tight as he readjusted them so Hubert lay against his damp, scalding chest.

Hubert sighed, closing his eyes and inhaling Ferdinand’s scent, strong and utterly intoxicating. His hair was sticky with their intermingled sweat, but he didn’t notice. He groaned when he felt Ferdinand’s own release leak from him.

Hubert felt as if his body was lazily lapped at by warm waves. He wasn’t sure where he was, truth be told, and his mind was still and numb. He felt as if his soul was prying itself him his sticky bones and attempting to float away altogether.

“Are you with me, darling?”

Some voice intruded his hollow mind, but he didn’t know where it came from. His mouth remained closed. He nuzzled the soft muscle beneath him, still warm and slick with sweat.

“Hubert, please answer me,” the same voice echoed uncomfortably.

The sense of sound was slowly returning to him. Hubert wasn’t sure where his mind had drifted off to, or for how long, but his husk of a body was practically vibrating, heavy, void.

He clutched onto the mass beneath him, as the waves threatened to carry him away.

“Ferdinand!” Hubert gasped.

“My moon and stars, my little raven, hush, I am right here with you,” Ferdinand stroked the hollow of his cheekbones. “I will always be right here for you,” he reassured him.

Hubert squeezed his eyes shut, determined to still his heartbeat until it synchronized with Ferdinand’s own. His voice was steady and tranquil, his slightly rough fingertips kissing Hubert’s hair, face, neck, back. Hubert flitted in and out of consciousness but caught little snippets of Ferdinand’s praise and Ferdinand calling him “beautiful” and “clever” and “mine”.

“I could write thousands of poems about your eyes alone,” Ferdinand whispered in his ear. “Who gave you those wonderous eyes?”

Hubert remembered finding a portrait, once, that has father had tucked behind an armoire in his quarters.

_Hubert was never allowed in the room but had managed to sneak in on a rather uneventful afternoon when his father was out. His fingers caught the edge of the painting covered in a scratchy linen dropcloth. Hubert unwrapped the canvas devoid of its frame carefully._

_A rosy-cheeked woman with a mess of deep blue hair stared back at him. Her hair reminded him of descriptions of tempests in novels he’d read in his youth, a series of unconquerably curls. Her aquiline nose gave the illusion that her cheeks were fuller than they really were, and her thin, painted lips showed the potential for a smile, but never quite achieved it. Her eyes were as untamable as her hair, the shape and color identical to his own._

_As he carefully re-wrapped the canvas, he smirked, finally understanding a little piece of himself that his father had hidden after all these years. His mother died in childbirth, yet he knew as soon as he saw that hair and those eyes, he was hers._

_When he returned later that week to gaze upon the portrait once more, it was gone._

“My mother,” Hubert smiled against Ferdinand’s chest. He gave a quick peck to the nipple beside his mouth.

“I see,” Ferdinand hummed, brushing Hubert’s hair out of his eye. It was such a simple gesture, but when Ferdinand sighed in contentment, Hubert knew his cheeks were turning that sickly peachy-pink they always did when he was flustered. Rather than look away as he always did, he stared up at Ferdinand and blinked slowly.

“I love you,” Hubert finally murmured after a comfortable silence.

He felt that each time he confessed that truth, there might be a chance—a minute, but very real chance—that the spell would be broken and Ferdinand suddenly would leave forever. It would be safer for him, in the long run.

But Hubert was greedy. He wanted to intertwine himself with Ferdinand’s existence until there was no longer a clean line to distinguish where each man ended and began.

“I love _you_ ,” Ferdinand emphasized by kissing Hubert’s sweaty hair. “You had me worried, Hubert.”

“It won’t happen again,” Hubert said.

“It was my fault,” Ferdinand surmised. “I pushed you far too hard, didn’t I?”

“You give yourself far too much credit,” Hubert chided. He then quietly added, “Perhaps the asphyxiation’s made me delirious, but flames, Ferdinand, I promise to make every waking hour of yours a living nightmare if we don’t do that again.”

“You… you actually liked it after all?”

“Of course I did, you proud fool! Must you make me confess everything?”

“Always.”

Ferdinand tipped Hubert’s chin up in his hand, leading him into an achingly slow kiss, which led to several other kisses thereafter.

“I must confess I enjoyed it myself; although, I expected someone to pound on my door after your scream,” Ferdinand chuckled.

Hubert covered his burning face. He’d assumed in his suffocated brain that it was Ferdinand who’d let out that hellish noise but, alas, he’d miscalculated.

“Aegir, I’ll make you pay dearly for this,” Hubert grumbled into his palms.

Ferdinand laughed. “Oh hush, now. I bought you a present, you know. I was going to save it for after your examination this next week, but I thought you may like these,” Ferdinand said, clumsily reaching into his nightstand to retrieve a rather fragrant parchment bag with a wax seal eerily close to the same color as his hair and eyes.

“Can you guess what these are?” Ferdinand beamed down at him.

Hubert sniffed the bag. It was clear whatever in it had coffee beans, but when Ferdinand rustled it, Hubert didn’t hear the familiar sound of coffee beans slipping by one another. There was a slightly sweet note to the scent as well. Was that cocoa?

“Close your eyes,” Ferdinand said, and just this once, Hubert humored him.

After Ferdinand pried the obnoxiously loud bag open, he whispered, “Open your mouth for me.”

Hubert did as was asked of him, Ferdinand’s fingers gracing his tongue with a strange delight; it must have been a candy of some sort, Hubert thought as he played with the dark chocolate-covered oval between his tongue and the roof of his mouth. It seemed soft enough to chew, and as he bit down, he was delighted to discover an extremely concentrated, bitter coffee center.

He couldn’t help his pleased hum as the notes of the dark chocolate and coffee bean intermixed.

“Is it too sweet for you?”

“Not in the slightest. It’s perfect, my little stallion,” he assured Ferdinand.

Ferdinand tipped Hubert’s chin up again and dipped his tongue into Hubert’s mouth, only to lurch back and make a rather uncouth noise of disgust. Hubert snickered and Ferdinand poked his nose.

“Ungrateful,” he grumbled in mock-offense.

Hubert brought Ferdinand’s palm to his mouth and brushed against it with his lips.

“Hardly,” he muttered against the skin there. “My Lord,” he whispered in reverence.

Ferdinand sighed, plucking little candies out of the bag and languidly offering them to him.

After a long bout of no words at all, Ferdinand spoke.

“When I inherit Aegir,” Ferdinand began, “I will procure everything and anything of interest to you. I will even make sure the gardeners till enough soil for you to plant anything to your liking in the pleasure garden; only my father and his guests ever stroll through it, so it will be of no great loss to me. Maybe we could plant some gardenias together, like the ones you gifted me?”

Hubert refused to look up at Ferdinand. He hummed against his breast and nuzzled deeper—anything to keep him from looking in those unassuming eyes.

“And of course, I would only commission the finest tailors in Adrestia for any piece you so desired, whether that be accompanying Edelgard to a royal ball or lounging on a lazy afternoon with what I can only picture as your third cup of coffee that day. You would have gloves in every imaginable material and color, and several pairs for my eyes _only_.”

Hubert grazed his teeth on Ferdinand’s chest and was met with a chuckle.

“Any and all your wants and needs will be fulfilled,” Ferdinand continued. “I would even pull the stars out of the night sky to put in those beautiful hands if you so desired it,” Ferdinand emphasized by cupping Hubert’s hands in his, kissing the pads of his fingers, turning his dark hands over, tracing along each pale nail there.

Hubert’s throat tightened.

“My primary duty is to Edelgard, and the Empire as a whole, as you know,” Hubert gently reminded him.

“Perhaps during your working hours, yes, but we have already established that you are mine, have we not?” Ferdinand kissed his temple.

“Yes, we have.”

“And I am yours in turn. As the future Prime Minister, I will serve Edelgard as well. Perhaps our schedules would align in such a way where we could sneak little kisses and notes between our meetings.”

_He’ll be dead sooner than Edelgard would ever let him ascend to such a position, most likely by your own hands._

“Perhaps,” Hubert said. He kissed Ferdinand briefly only to prevent himself from having to stare into those eyes.

He tucked himself back onto his chest and motioned weakly for the bag of chocolate-covered coffee beans. Ferdinand emitted a small “ahh”, grabbing the bag and delicately feeding Hubert the candies once more; Hubert was never one to indulge in sweets, but the bitterness intermingled with the twinge of sweetness was the perfect mixture.

Ferdinand’s fingertips were turning brown and glossy from the chocolate melting there, and Hubert licked them clean, earning a pearly laugh from Ferdinand. “I was not made aware that I had tamed a feral cat this evening!” he grinned.

Hubert scoffed. Clever retorts were beyond his capabilities at this point, he feared. He stretched and turned to face the wall and grumbled when he realized there were a few wet spots on the sheets.

“Ah, let me get a cloth for you,” Ferdinand mumbled, leaping off of the bed and taking care to wipe Hubert and himself with a soft towel.

Hubert closed his eyes and exhaled. Ferdinand flopped to his side near him to trace delicate lines all along his back.

“Darling, what is this scar from? I do not remember you getting injured here in any of our excursions with the professor.”

Hubert knew exactly which one he spoke of before he felt the drag of calloused skin along the long, silver scar right above his ass.

“It’s old,” he said, pretending not to shiver under Ferdinand’s touch.

It wasn’t a lie, exactly, but he didn’t want to divulge the ugly truth to Ferdinand, that Lord Arundel gave him several lashes when Edelgard had failed several examinations given to her by her many tutors.

_It didn’t matter to Arundel that she was grieving the recent loss of her youngest brother, Emmerich, who writhed and shriveled and shrieked on his deathbed like a snail frothing from salt. It didn’t matter to Arundel that this made little Edelgard the last of her siblings to survive the horrors exacted upon them that she only confessed to Hubert when she awoke from her unsettling dreams._

_It only mattered that she had failed._

_It was, of course, improper for a man of his position—of any position—to punish the heir apparent in such a manner, but Hubert had no such luxury._

_Hubert had taken a few strikes here and there, but it paled in comparison the burn of Arundel’s plum leather snake whip. The crack of the whip signaled the unfurling of the skin underneath it and Hubert couldn’t even prevent the cries threatening to spill out of his clenched mouth or the surge of magic that prickled beneath the then-pale skin of his hands._

_Arundel seemed to delight in it. If anything, perhaps he enjoyed painting Hubert’s scrawny body with the series of deep lashes more than if he had simply enacted such viciousness against Edelgard herself. It showed Edelgard that every action had a consequence. Arundel mumbled as much, but Hubert could barely hear him over Edelgard’s loud protests and screams._

_He only stopped when Edelgard fell to her knees, eyes red and brimmed with tears that trailed into her trembling mouth._

_Hubert sobbed into his hands when the ordeal was over, wailing even louder when Edelgard knelt beside him and whispered, in an uncharacteristically defeated and scratchy voice, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, it’s my fault,” over and over._

_The two of them never spoke about that instant ever again._

“Do you care to tell me?”

“Not now.”

“Then rest,” Ferdinand muttered, scuttling down the mattress awkwardly to place kisses all along Hubert’s scar before returning to his side and placing a final kiss good night on his cheek.

Hubert hated when Ferdinand fell asleep in this position, with his arms wrapped tight around him; his breath was warm and damp in his hair, and the predictable rise and fall of his chest against Hubert’s back threatened to drag him down into the depths of sleep as well. He was as determined in sleep as he was during his waking hours to make Hubert feel treasured, it seemed.

It made escaping all the harder.

He shifted at first to see if he’d meet any resistance. Ferdinand sighed, his breath tickling Hubert’s back. Now was his chance. Slowly but surely, he wriggled the pillow beneath his head to nestle against Ferdinand’s chest and lifted himself to step over Ferdinand’s feet to leave.

Ferdinand, as always, groaned in that terrible octave, and Hubert bent down to his kiss his brow. He quietly scrambled for his clothes on the floor, taking great care not to let his belt jingle in the stillness of Ferdinand’s room. All the while, Ferdinand mumbled and moaned in his sleep, his eyelids moving in unpredictable patterns. As Hubert finished dressing, he wondered what Ferdinand possibly dreamt of; surely it somehow involved horses or tea or some wild, boyish adventure of some sort. Hubert selfishly wondered if Ferdinand dreamt of him tonight instead.

And just as suddenly as Ferdinand had made all that commotion in his sleep, he exhaled slow and deep, and all was quiet again.

For a brief, terrible moment, Hubert envisioned laying down Ferdinand in an open casket filled with white chrysanthemums, as still as he was now, his eyelids shut forever and cheeks pallid with death.

He couldn’t linger on that; he _refused_ to linger on that.

He had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you ever want to follow me on twitter, here’s the link to do so!: https://twitter.com/boringgreen1
> 
> The song list for this chapter was pretty extensive, so I will list everything below!!!!:
> 
> “Get You” - Daniel Caesar feat. Kali Uchis  
> “Felicity” - Let  
> “Parix” - When Saints Go Machine  
> “Superior Emotion” - AlunaGeorge feat. Cautious Clay  
> “Busted and Blue” - Gorillaz  
> “4ÆM” - Grimes  
> “Infinity (SLCT remix)” - Bluma Petersen and Nadja Alsén  
> “Down in Flames” - Cleopold  
> “Romantic Streams” - Sleep Over
> 
> Thank you all so much for your patience and I apologize for being gone for so long!


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